


Love and Flying in the Time of the Blitz

by Beatrice_Sank



Category: Bedknobs and Broomsticks (1971)
Genre: (due to the unreasonable amount of pining), Alternate History, And All Sorts of Insecurities, Becoming Parents (kind of), Bittersweet, Character Study, F/M, Family Fluff, Magic, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Stopping the Nazis!, World War II, accidental magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-14 04:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16906443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/pseuds/Beatrice_Sank
Summary: In which it takes some more time for Eglantine and Emelius to find each other, and themselves. It may not be the easiest thing when you're a practical witch who always preferred usefulness to emotions, and a magician with an inferiority complex and a tendency to always run for the door. Fortunately, the children are there, and they are a force to be reckoned with.Oh, and there's still a war to stop: the year is 1941, and it is high time everyone remembers they can use magic.Mostly a slow-burn, but also a take on how you build a family and happily divert History's course (and in that respect also carelessly uchronic). And really just my silly love letter to Angela Lansbury.





	1. Your Lot and My Lot

 

He had never been able to truly settle down.

 

He had fallen for her instantly, so simply and so definitely that he had found himself, at least for a while, in a state of utter serenity, a smooth and calm joy you only experience when faced with indisputable evidence that your life has shifted for good, that you are, without a doubt, set.

It could be said, he supposed, that she gave him the sense of stability he never had, even at the point when they had barely exchanged a few words. And he marveled at that, as he marveled at her. Because she was, obviously and indisputably, a wonder, a woman so remarkable that after meeting her you were suddenly unable to remark anything else. Before, he was always easily distracted. The sort of banal charm and cheap gallantry he had first tried on her by sheer force of habit had had girls grow soft on him in the past, but those things never lasted, and always remained on the surface of what he suspected he was capable of feeling, possibly, probably. He always doubted he had any sort of depth before, only hoped, with a secrete sense of despair (but of course nothing too dramatic, of course not), that he had.

But in all honesty, at first he didn't think about himself at all. There was only her, glowing in the impossible light of the enchantments he invented and that worked only for her, just for her. She didn't even seem to notice, though he never tried to be subtle about it, never could detach himself from the treasure that she was, the chance, to reach that level of self-awareness. She walked past his jests and his songs like he was another fraud on Portobello Road. He loved a woman with purpose. He loved a witch.

What he didn't think about, probably couldn't, was that maybe he loved her so much because she didn't see him at all.

 

This is why he was able so leave so easily, and come back so soon. He was so convinced he didn't deserve her he never really thought any of his lucid dreams could come true. He never thought of asking her. But the second she was threatened he forgot all about himself again. His chosen form of rescue said it all, in its sweet contradictions: he was the bravest rabbit there ever was.

 

*

She had always been an independent woman.

Proper, yes, prim, even ladylike if you listened to what the vicar had to say when he had feasted too heavily on communion wine, well-mannered, thank you kindly; but her only infringement to the portrait of the perfectly accomplished woman of her time was that she remained self-reliant, and stubbornly so. In that day and age it often meant lonely, but she never was, really – never felt that way. Alone, but not lonely – there was a world of difference. She had a strong head, was purposeful – her father always told her so, and she owed him her principles, her permanent will to make herself useful. Now wanting to be of use and not liking people very much as a general rule is a combination that can lead to a certain number of contradictions, but she managed on her own, and worked for people she would not care for five minutes of conversation with. That was Miss Eglantine Price for you – service but not company.

Though, she had to admit, the cat was fine. He came with his own name, and seemed self-sufficient enough to comply with her stern habits. The children were a rather different matter – at first. She had never wanted children, never planned to have any. Her own mother had died giving birth to her, and if she was honest, awful as it sounded, she sometimes thought it was for the best. She would have been a very different person, had not her father found himself alone with a baby he had no clue how to raise. Her mother, from what she had gathered, would probably have taught her sewing and piano, and she would have been married by now, covered in children, conventional, and proper. But not independent.

Her father only had a vague idea of how a young lady should behave, bless him, and she showed some resistance to even his mildest attempts at an early age too. The result of which was she tried – and failed – to learn to ride a horse, her father hurling very unladylike terms at her for her clumsiness, but mostly she studied, again and again. And she was so good at it she suspected the colonel would have sent her to college, no matter how improper it was at the time, and how new, had he not died in the very last months of the war. She was 18, and the local heiress, alone, suddenly. She had to make do.

Of course it wasn't the 19th century any more – but her father was well-respected, well liked, and if people thought the education he had given his only daughter was perhaps a bit unconventional, no one commented on it – at least not in front of her. Suitors appeared at her doorstep, were easily discouraged. She was very good at discouraging people, a useful talent when you enjoyed solitude as much as she did.

And so she studied some more. British history, geography and English, botany, mathematics and chemistry, though she never really seemed to wrap her head around the most theoretical disciples. She charted the region like a true Englishwoman during her first adult years, her first orphaned years if you wanted to be precise. That was in every respect a meaningful start, the beginning of a long effort to invent ways to be useful at a distance. She wrote cartons for the Museum too, for historical reviews, tourist guides, sewed for the poor without particular talent since she remained an heiress after all, fed local birds and avoid conversation in the village as much as she could, though she did a moral exception for the vicar and soldiers who had known her father. This rectitude kept her reputation mostly intact for some years, though people failed to understand why she would not marry. She didn't really know either, other than she saw no particular reason to do so, and that sort of affair seemed to her to require particular reasons indeed. Her needs, as they were, were few: open air, the sea breeze, the sound of waves in the distance, the benevolent presence of the moon over her old cottage, the birds and the silent trees.

If she tried and reasoned with herself, she knew she had wanted to become one of those Oxford ladies that began to appear in the 20s, the ones who were so often mocked in pubs as “modern women”, the first few to actually teach at college level, but she also realised her education, though exceptional for her time and place, was still too lacking for that to ever be a real possibility. So, she would not be a scholar.

Instead she experimented with her father's old motorcycle, explored the countryside, pushed as far as London when the engine allowed it. She loved the road and its regularity. Amelia Earhart, then? And some nights she just danced to herself, for no particular reason: it wasn't proper, it wasn't useful, but sometimes she just allowed herself to want things. Witchcraft had come into her life logically, as everything else. Rationally, there was no reason for her to believe in the scam the lessons she took obviously were, but something in it… picked her curiosity. And she had always been curious too, if a bit rigid in her choices. The idea of being a witch, alone and secluded in her ancient English cottage, wary of suitors, drinking dubious-smelling decoctions of herbs while talking to herself, well, that actually made a lot of sense. It was nice to finally have a label for oneself. An independent woman. Therefore, a witch. Oh yes, she could see the sense and propriety in that.

 

The children came as an interference between herself and what could at last be her grant purpose in life. The charms worked, well, like charms, and she just had to make a breakthrough. She just looked through them for the first couple of days. Now was not a time for orphans, and being one herself she had always managed not to become anybody's problem, so she could probably set a fine example here. As long as they left her in peace.

Her senses were clear. She knew she could do this. And then when he came, worthless illusions and suitcases full of lies, she didn't even pause to hesitate. The spells worked for her, and she didn't need him and his insinuating compliments. Why dream of being his assistant when she was ruling the show? But he was… so full of contradictions she could not make head nor tail of him. One second he was all talk, vanishing into thin air, the next he was getting trampled by wild animals just to advance her cause. It has been so long since she had last danced with someone else.

But England was calling, she had a task to complete and there was no time. And though he finally came back to help, without reason if not without need, she ended up raising an army on her own. Accidental support was a fine thing when you could get some, and company wasn't all that annoying, for a while, just for a while. If she could command to British soldiers of yore, she could take care of three children. Inheriting them in that way was somehow a blessing, as it allowed for the invention of relationships not clearly mapped in the usual conventions. This would do. This and the fact that she loved them now, so there wasn't any other option really.

Nonetheless, she remained above all a strong, independent woman. She didn't know why she kept thinking about that these days.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the result of my attempt to write something "simple and traditional", which, lol. This will be updated regularly as it is almost done, and should be around 30,000 words.  
> As always, English is not my native language, so pardon all mistakes and awkwardness in syntax. Don't hesitate to point them out to me.


	2. Our Guest

 

After his grand return, he stayed with them for a while. Though he was so overwhelmed with joy he could barely understand what he felt, things remained on uncertain ground. She had fallen into his arms in the least metaphorical way imaginable, and he held her there but only for a night. In the heat of the moment, once they've been safe in the comfort of her home, he had checked her for injuries in a manner she would probably have deemed improper, had she not been ecstatic and exhausted, hands running along her legs and caressing her arms, and are you absolutely certain this is not a sprained ankle.

She fell asleep into his arms that night. But when he woke up the next morning, he was alone, their relationship back to what it has been on the previous day: unsettled, unsettling, infuriating and intoxicating. The only difference being that she noticed him now, laughed and smiled to him and not through him; they kept each other company.

And suddenly it was just like he had first laid eyes on her again; a happiness so bright and a gaiety that made him sing loudly, whenever he walked by the disapproving vicar on his way to the village. The children and him kept re-enacting the epic Battle of Pepperinge, he fed everybody better food than Eglantine's usual greens, and she tutted disapprovingly but pressed his arm when she passed near him as if to thank him for simply standing there.

“It's a real home now,” remarked Paul one day, as they were assembling a hut in the garden while Charlie and Carrie looked for old planks in the remains of the destroyed barn. He said nothing, and asked himself if it indeed was.

*

There was something a bit moving about seeing him standing so proud in an apron before a dish of baked potatoes or a golden roasted chicken, all the while accepting the symbolical humility that came with being domestic, for a man of that age – she understood those distinctions so well, and sometimes cruelly, having failed to give satisfaction in that respect for the better part of her life. And now she was getting so old. That meant nothing of course. But every time she saw him take something out of the oven she would pause and think, curiously, “I'm so old now”. Never had she considered before that her taste for healthy food could be a hindrance to the sense of community one may need to build in a home – another humbling discovery. He was that to her too, she supposed – a warm and rich cordial. Not the most delicate of images, but after all he himself was covered in gravy half the time he spent with her. Days were sunnier now, weren't they? The marine taste in the air had taken a fresher tang.

*

Though always a social man, he tried to keep the villagers at bay. The situation, though thrilling in every possible way, was complicated enough, and something in him told him they didn't need witnesses. That had been his downfall last time, Mrs Hobday be damned. The thought that she might be awaken from the blissful state of obliviousness she seemed to live in now that he was under her roof terrified him. He was to remain a swindle, even there, otherwise she might realise how inappropriate this all probably was. She was a lady and a genius, and he was only false money. Not to the kids, never to them, and as Charlie began to betray an interest for the baker's daughter, he gave one piece of advice or two, sensible ones at that (to be kind and thoughtful instead of coolly distant), but to her that would never be enough. Even though, when the vicar told him:

“Would you be so kind as to ask Miss Price if she would come to the wedding mass this Saturday? I need a singer, and she has the most delightful voice,” with the air of a man who had a purpose too, he did not hate himself enough to relay.  
Some days, when she forgot herself and danced with him for a minute, any time the children thought it a good idea to revive the music of Naboombu Island, or when she scolded him in a manner too fond, too mild, her eyes too bright, the pub became a necessity. He loved her enough that he needed to forget, at night, that walls were only so thin, and nightgowns only so soft.

*

People didn't understand. The children seemed perfectly fine with it, happier, and surprisingly careful, as if the first incident with Mrs Hobday had created some sort of precedent they feared would repeat if they dared mention the word “family”. As weeks and months went by, she realised she loathed herself for it. It was just a word, for God sake, a family could be anything, from a spinster and her cat to a found community of orphans and their magician.

The children loved him – Charlie strangely at peace when he was around, as if grateful. As she did the garden with Carrie, who followed her around at all time, looking at her like she too would like to become the next Amelia Earhart, he gave the boys bakery lessons, and from the smell of burned apples that lingered in the kitchen for days, Charlie was putting them to good use, and without asking her about the oven too. But gossips never stopped, even after months of cohabitation, though he remained a very discrete presence. One day, as she was shopping for grocery, she heard the postman's wife whispered something about last Sunday sermon on adultery to her neighbour as she passed near her house – that Mister Jelk was going out of his way to to inconvenience her lately. Nobody understood – and she didn't think about it. Him. Sometimes he read over her shoulder on the couch after supper, and his breathing didn't disturb her in her task. But she noticed it, and the sensation lingered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it's a shame nobody requested a B&B fic as a Yule treat this year, this one is long enough that I could post one chapter per day until Christmas.  
> Title vaguely from Beauty and the Beast (each one is supposed to come from a musical involving Angela Lansbury somehow, you've been warned).


	3. With the back of my hand

In the end, it was the thinness of walls that made him leave her side, their home. Walls and the example she offered, purposeful and serious, undisturbed in her work. Everyday he was reminded that she had done great things for this country, that she should be knighted at the very least, as she remained indifferent to any form of reward. Nobody knew of her magic and merits, and she didn't care in the least. She was satisfied, having played her part well. In comparison, his meagre actions appeared so selfish and mediocre that he knew he couldn't stay forever and bathe in her light like he did. Came a time when he was unable to look her in the eyes any more. He said to her:

“What you did, my dear, was an act of bravery worthy of more than a general.”

She usually answered that the sentence didn't make sense.

Carrie liked to play with her old broom, hoping it would fly again someday, holding a stick like a sabre. Eglantine was watching her fondly through the window one day when he walked in and said to her back, quickly, before she had the chance to turn around and look at him properly:

“I've enlisted, Miss Price. I should be leaving in a week.”

It took her forever to face him, he felt. If she paled under the sunlight he could not tell the difference – he could barely hold her gaze.

“Good heavens, enlisted where?”

“Well, in the army my dear. Of all possible places, I can't live under this roof knowing that something can still be done,” he added more softly.

Slowly, slowly she took a few steps in his direction. The air around him moved and her perfume was on him, as it sometimes happened – he knew it well now, peppermint and sage, and something bitter-sweet like ginger snaps. Finally he looked up to see her eyes turned a darker shade of lavender, to hear her say, voice too equal, clear:

“I didn't realise this had been such a burden to you.”

And then she turned back to the window, and in the lightest tone, spoke of getting him her father's boots, for the standard equipment was said to be quite awful, and a man had to fight on his own two feet, didn't he? He wanted to crumble to the ground.

*

Something happened on the day he left. Something she didn't quite know what to make of.

She was in a strange mood, had been for the whole week, doors slamming on their own behind her, while she spoke calmly and with determination like the most reasonable person in the world. Her throat had felt so cold these last few days. Maybe she was finally getting sick. It was hard to tell, since she appeared to be out of her body most of the time, in a drowsy state she couldn't quite describe. Carrie cried a lot, and Paul argued and argued, while she and Charlie simply said nothing. Nothing at all, not a word, even when he brought her peppermint at night and tried to see what she was reading. There was a moment though – she had just handed him a plate of ginger snaps, and for a second he looked like he would burst into tears. She slept like a stone, with no memory of her dreams.

The day before his departure, a hand landed on her wrist and she jumped out of her skin. She had been convinced she was wearing longer sleeves.

“Eglantine.”

That terrible name. And the way he pronounced it.

“Will you write?”

He sounded so sad she could not help the crack in her own voice. This made no sense at all.

“Why of course, don't be silly.”

At that instant she knew how awful it would be – to have him gone. The next morning Paul asked her if she was going to send them back to placement now that the Professor was leaving. Having to explain she would never do such a thing was a profitable exercise in convincing herself his departure would be a good thing nonetheless. A terrible, good thing.

She accompanied him to the station – the London train again, at last, inevitably. They didn't say a word as they walked, purposefully, along the flowery path. His hand brushed against hers and she did not gasp.

The platform was deserted, so early in the day, and as he suddenly took both her hands, she knew there would be no witness to this, just the sea breeze and the silence of the trees, as always. His lips pressed against her phalanxes, like the last time he had deserted her, but they lingered even more, his fingers more desperate, his eyes burning on her face – she remembered. She hadn't realised she could assign adjectives to his gestures until now.

So when he began to move away, she pulled on his hands and crashed against him like a wave. Her whole body – where were they? Lips against his, between his, powerful like the tide, and she was everywhere, thrown against him, chest, throat, arms glued to one another, skin, fingers clasped around his neck – they stumbled – one of them moaned. She felt salty, sparkling all over and light-headed – what, what. But wasn't that something one did, kissing the soldier who was going to war, the normal reaction, a charitable deed that hardly meant anything? She had never kissed anyone like this. She didn't even know kissing could mean this – melting, breathlessness, trembling and deaf to the world and his tongue, she could burst, sparkling even more, a wave, and then everything vibrating, more and more, until a crack and a flash so bright broke the spell and pushed her away.

She opened her eyes. At her feet, still glowing from the sudden surge of magic, stood a stunned white rabbit. She screamed.

During the few minutes it took her to collect herself, the rabbit jumped around in circle, as shocked as she was it seemed, and when it finally turned back into Emelius, he just blinked at her and said:

“Sorry what… what did you just say?”

She couldn't stand to look at him.

“I said I would miss you.”

*

He didn't even remember saying goodbye to her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit of action. Yes, I'm quite fond of rabbits. Don't worry, that's about the most experimental it will get. Ans as always, yes, this is one of those stories where everyone is a fool.
> 
> Title from "I Don't Want to Know" (relevant isn't it?) from Dear World, a rare musical I kinda of recommend even if it's a rather odd one.


	4. While you write a letter

His first letters were careful, as if he feared he would overstep, overstay his welcome. He wrote to them all, as he would to his family, with a word in for everyone: ridiculous military anecdotes for Carrie (half-invented but as it turned out the army was bustling with those and he didn't have to put in much effort to come up with hilarious tales); detailed account of his training and complains about the local food for Charlie; and for Paul, vivid depictions of the landscapes he had crossed on his way to his barrack – he suspected the young boy was quite curious of what laid outside the village, after visiting such exotic places by bed not so long ago. To Eglantine… at first he wrote nearly nothing, assuming she would be the one doing the reading and appreciating the whole letter as a general attention. But he kept seeing her disapproving face, and after a while began to include paragraphs for her, set more and more apart in his writing, as if to discourage her to read them aloud.

They said things like _“Knowing you, I'm sure you would think living in a barrack filled with mostly young and boisterous men akin to hell, and my dear you would be absolutely right,”_

“ _To amuse my fellow conscripts, I took the liberty of trying my hand at a little juggling act with rationed tins in the direct proximity of a sleeping sergeant. It went as you may imagine, and I now have a hundred pound of potatoes to peel. If you happen to know a fitting spell, by all means feel free to write,”_

“ _I dreamt I was eating ginger snaps last night – but they weren't nearly as good as the ones you make when it's getting cold. Even my fantasies are not up to the task, it seems.”_

Her replies were always serious in appearance, but well-phrased and as letters accumulated he began to detect a tongue in cheek tone in them he cherished so much he sometimes kissed the thin paper.

“ _Dear Professor Browne,”_ she wrote, _“I'm afraid no such spell exists – as you should know, since you are, after all, the one who wrote them down. May I suggest, however, a simple Substitutiary Locomotion: traditional, of course, but life-saving in curbing one's juggling misjudgements – watch out for side effects.”_

“ _Living with three children who are receiving a strict education under perfect guidance, I think I can pretty well imagine a barrack's atmosphere.”_

“ _Since you seem to miss local indulgences so much, I attached a box of home-made biscuits to this letter, hoping it will sweeten your dreams for a while.”_

 

When he read them at night in his bunk-bed, trying to hide his pocket lamp under his sheet, he told himself they smelt of sage and mint, and a bit of the coastal wind. Soon, he was writing entirely separated letters, hers painting a more truthful picture of his war experience than the children's, which had a sense of mandatory cheerfulness he didn't always felt. From then on he may have slipped, from time to time, for she was so far from him and yet closer than she had ever been, actually condoning his jokes and responding to his multiple attempts to catch her attention with a fondness that had been more carefully veiled before.

“ _We crossed path with a medical unit from London last week, and you'll be pleased to know that I looked with attention to all the nurses, but none of them looked like they could have born the sight of a dragon liver. No evidence of broom either. I am, therefore, growing a bit desperate.”_

“ _I hope I'm not asking too much, but since Christmas is approaching, I wondered if you would send me a picture of you and the children, to hang above my chimney (this is how I call my hot water bottle on good days). I'm sure they all have grown up miles, and that you are as bewitching as ever, quite literally so.”_

“ _Since my achievements are not, according to most of my old teachers and a good portion of my military instructors, that impressive in the long run, I don't see why you would shy in calling me Emelius. It's a silly name, but silly is probably what best describes me (better, in any case, than “Professor”), and if you ever doubt that, remember that I once sat on your knees impersonating a fluffy mammal.”_

 

“ _Dear Emelius, If you insist.”_

*

The photograph was the most precious thing he owned, and the few magical spells he remembered were scribbled behind it. The children looked healthy – and it was so clear they were using all their will-power to stay still and hold the pose when all they wanted was to run around and investigate the working of the magnesium flash, that looking at it never failed to fill his heart with joy and affection. They had indeed grown up, especially Carrie, who almost had the eyes of an adult now, something that worried him some days. Charlie looked calm enough, if a bit sombre, and Paul glowed as ever despite the bluish bags under his eyes.

Eglantine was simply beautiful. Even in black and white, there was no denying it, and the way she stared at the camera as if she knew he would look at it in a certain way was so intense it made his heart grow weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Sweeney Todd, "By the Sea" (but in that one they succeed).


	5. The Mention of Your Name

She had put too much of herself in the letters that followed, and that scared her now. Long, long letters in which she told him of their life, of her thoughts and wishes, daydreams sometimes, until she had to write in the smallest characters to save her last pieces of paper. Letters she signed absent-mindedly with expressions like “Yours,” or “Your devoted,”, “Thinking of you,”. And her first name. There were days when she reflected she should never have told him her name in the first place. All of this had been unreasonable.

She could never find the nerves to ask him back for his photograph – a nonsensical request since how was he to find a photographer in a barrack anyway? Still, she wanted to see him, his face, and if he was well, if he had lost weight, if his hair was shorter now.

“It feels like you're really looking at me,” he had written when she had sent him the picture. This gave her a shameful idea. Perusing through the grimoire, she identified a forgotten charm that had seemed useless at first – a mirror charm. She worked on it for weeks, experimenting with syllables to make the necessary adjustments – and when at last it worked she simply couldn't believe her eyes. She had undertaken this not really thinking this would be possible, mainly to give herself something to think about. “Miror Animae” now allowed her to see through her own mirror what the photographed version of her face saw – the logic behind it was complex, wizards of old had never heard of photography, but spying from one mirror to another was a common trick in the ancient times, and the spell simply treated the picture as another mirror. From her bedroom, she could thus see the Professor lying in his military bed at night. She didn't abuse the spell – it felt morally wrong to spy, she was no Peeping Tom (she blushed at the implication of this thought) and it was too bizarre a thing to confess in a letter. But in his sleep, he looked peaceful enough – thinner, she noted worriedly, tired too, unsurprisingly. His dreams seemed pleasant, on the few occasions she stole a look, and he spoke a lot through them though she could not hear a thing. Once she caught him as he opened one of their letters. He brought it to his face and closed his eyes for a second, as if contemplating something, breathing deeply, and a smile of content formed on his lips. She saw him laugh at what must have been her condemnation of his rude attitude as a rabbit, and her chest felt strangely heavy. She stopped the spell and went to bed with a surge of vertigo.

*

“ _My dear Eglantine,_

_It's spring now, and so I think about your name. Uninspired, you will say, but I'll have you know that the sweet briar has the latest bloom, but the prettiest. With all that botanical trivia, you'll want to call me Professor again, for my troubles. I realised lately how forward I had been, asking you for your first name so soon after we met. I'm a rascal, nevertheless I'm glad I did.”_

 

“ _Dear Emelius,_

_I take good note of your concerns about Paul. I too noticed he looked overly tired lately – nightmares perhaps. I will investigate, try asking Carrie. As for you question, I'm afraid I don't remember much either: you left so hastily. The shock was rather strong, and I suppose it can alter one's memory – although I remember saying that I would miss you, and I do. We all do, as a matter of fact. I hope you are well.”_

*

He was observant, there was indeed something up with Paul. The war troubled him very much, which was only natural – he asked her countless questions about Hitler, the German HQ, and she tried to reassure him the best she could, but the boy wanted nothing but solid information, like a grown-up – so they listened to the news together. That probably wasn't very healthy for an eight years old, but hell, it was war, she was alone with three children and she worried too. There was no point disguising the anguish of the situation, the children were intelligent and she had always treated them as such, something most adults seemed to have trouble doing, if you listened to them. Nevertheless, and though she knew now how much she loved them all, the days were long and rather gloomy. Time seemed to stretch into immobile hours in the yellow light of the coast, the landscape more still and silent than it used to be. Her peppermint was always cold, the taste not right. She feigned cheerfulness as she could, and most of the time she had a feeling the children did too. They all acted in good faith not to worry each others, not to add to anyone's burden, and as she looked at them, bravely keeping up a smiling face, she thought bitterly that she had taught them too well.

*

“ _I wish you would come here and lead the army. I would much rather serve under you than any old general.”_

He was a sweet-talker, and that had always been his problem. The things he had told her, even at the beginning, barely decent. And so much easier to write them to her too – when she looked at him, during those days at the cottage, he couldn't move a finger in her direction. God knew what paralysed him then, he was never one to shy before those things, but her eyes were uncannily blue and he just… he was a fool, and a frozen one. He kissed the picture goodnight and turn off his pocket lamp.

*

She had lied to him. She remembered what happened at the station perfectly well, even if he had forgotten all about it. In fact, she thought about it sometimes, at night, when the air was more still than usual, wondering about the magic that had escaped her, remembering how it all felt.

“Why of course, I kissed you senselessly, don't you recall? I think we almost fell over, you tousled my hair, my hand was gliding down the back of your collar treacherously, you were trembling, me too, really how could you forget, dear?”

Yes, well. She would never write this or anything remotely close in a government-reviewed letter. She wouldn't even _think_ of it – it was neither proper nor sane, and rabbit or not, it shouldn't have happened at all. 

*

One night, the longing too strong, she had indulged in using Miror Animae, but when the surface of her mirror cleared, she moved back in surprise. Emelius was looking at her directly, as if he was in the same room – she was barely covered. The look he gave her was devastating – one that conjugated despair and wistfulness, something tender too, and wariness, an intoxicating mix she was helpless against. Barely believing her eyes, she came closer, a hand clasped to her chest. He smiled a sad smile, and his face grew closer. She bent forward without thinking, her nose almost touching the mirror, she could reach for him now – and his lips, suddenly, were –

“Emelius,” she said, and her breath deposited a cold mist over his mouth on the mirror. He wasn't there, he couldn't see her – and he was far away.

That night she cried herself to sleep.

*

“ _Dear Miss Price,_

_Writing to you so often reminds me of the first letters we wrote to each other, when I still was the great Professor Emelius Brown, and you my humble pupil, eager to learn but stuck in that retrograde village of yours – oh do roll your eyes, my dear, I was a pompous fool at the time (still largely am). But I never expected you would write so often with accounts of your progress, and we – we talked about a lot more than magic, in retrospect, didn't we? Though I admit that depiction of yours of the dragon liver was so vivid it is still engraved in my mind, especially now that I'm living in a closed room with fifty people and limited access to hygienic equipment and therefore tempted to draw comparisons. I remember you were worried about me then, about London being such a dreadful environment, crowded and foul, for such a respectable gentleman as me. By Jove, Eglantine, you were always too kind. I've never been a gentleman to you, have I? I thought you were inventing these stories about the spells having an effect, just to talk. And then I got caught up in the game – your letters were already delightful, and I still have them. You only had a voice for me back then, but when I discovered your face – always an uncanny experience, don't you think? – but your face, Eglantine, knowing now I could have lived my whole life without setting eyes on you, without giving those words a form, it seems unbelievable. I saw you. I still do in some way, thanks to that photograph. But I can't unsee you now, and that's what makes the war so long.”_

He nearly didn't send that one, and shouldn't have really, but  it was her birthday, the children having made a splendid job of letting him know in advance, and he was getting so sentimental at the late hour he finished it that declarations simply couldn't be helped. Hoping she would read it as over-the-top, circumstantial gallantry seemed reasonable enough. He was a soldier after, albeit a rather inactive one, he was entitled to those occasional outbursts. There was little chance she would believe a word of it anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouuh, magic. I think I'm making myself sad here. 
> 
> Title from the titular song of "Mame", of course, highly recommended.


	6. Half the fun is to plan the plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out fellows, we're growing a plot! Stay tuned for magic, historical good sense, and Hitler probably.

As far as foolishness went, it took them a good nine months to remember they knew how to use magic. The truth of the matter was of course a bit more complex, but once the bed was brought back in the picture, their own tragic postures began to show their limits, at least that's what she kept on thinking, irritated at herself for shying away from spells like a resigned spinster. Certainly it went to show that one could be too proper, and not practical enough, and this time she was truly done with conventions ruling her thinking. She would always be a witch, poisoned dragon liver or not, and it was high time she embraced her nature.

*

Ultimately, it was Paul who put magic back into their life.

The war was taking a strange turn. Emelius's dreams of greatness and moral deeds had only lasted the time it took him to understand the army was not a place for heroism, but one more structure in which he fitted only through his sheer talent for pretending. Not that the role he had to play was in any way difficult: peeling potatoes and sweeping the floor were hardly complex tasks, even if they could still be faked. And he had an impression it wasn't that much different for the higher ranked officers: maps and endless talks, logistics, the war he had imagined only existing somewhere near the coast where an army of empty armours had marched on the enemy, on the battlefield Eglantine had invented for herself. Here you could only hope for a better assignment and wait, hoping you wouldn't get killed stupidly or, the idea taking longer to make its mark, that you wouldn't have to kill anyone. Sabres and armours were fine, inspiring an old-fashioned fear that brought at least an illusion of sense to the fight. But those were empty suits; why then, sacrifice thousands upon thousands of warm, living bodies when you could raise battalions of ghosts?

For his regiment, at any rate, combat wasn't on the agenda. Plans of departure were always cancelled, rumours being that the Axis was getting disorganized due to agitation on the German side. The leaders were quarreling more and more, it went, because of Hitler's growing paranoia. Apparently, even in the German General Staff, whispers were that he was going mad. Stunningly, most of his generals were also reported to have acted nervously for the past few months, but nobody could advance a realistic explanation for the phenomenon. People began to assume the war wasn't going as expected for Germany, despite the material advances that had been made on every front, and that the country wouldn't be able to sustain the war effort for much longer. This had a terrible effect on the troops' morale, and the War Cabinet in London was simply delighted. Talks of sending them oversea had stopped, the Air Force having made surprise breakthrough on its own in the last weeks. The war, it was thought, might end up being shorter than expected after all.

Around that time, in a surge of misplaced enthusiasm, he had had the misfortune of crossing again the very sergeant he had previously knocked out with a corned-beef tin earlier in his service. Who would have thought that an innocent attempt at a laundry spell Eglantine had recommended would result in a very localised flood right over the thin-skinned officer's bed. As a result, he got assigned to what most soldiers considered the worst post, namely the guarding of the ammunition stocks. It had the double disadvantage of being night work that didn't exonerate you from your other responsibilities in the daytime, and especially lonely since it was a one man job. All in all, a tiring and mostly useless activity that shouldn’t have elicited such relief from him; though always sociable, these days he was grateful for all the quietness he could find, and the chore actually allowed him to muse all he wanted.

 

On a particularly empty night, not long before midnight, he was shaken out of what definitely was a light drowsiness, and not at all a satisfied slumber, by the colours of familiars sparkles under his lids.

“That's it, Emelius old pal,” he muttered sleepily. “You've finally lost the plot.”

He had no time to dwell on that thought, however, since a bed landed on the exact spot he was slouching on, nearly crushing him. As he dragged himself from the floor, shocked, a shrill voice exclaimed:

“Blimey Professor Browne, I'm so happy to see you again!”

And there was Paul, jumping out of the bed and into his arms to coerce him into a stubborn hug, while he repeated blankly to the wall:

“But...but how...”

Eventually he collected enough of his spirits to hug the child back, won over by euphoria at seeing him again after all these months. They were in the process of dancing a merry round when reality caught up with Emelius.

“Paul, what in George's name are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

Without batting an eyelid, the boy answered, as if it was the most natural thing in the world:

“Well I needed you to come steal Hitler's plans with me!”

He couldn't see his own face at the moment, but he was quite sure it was reminiscent of the one he offered as a man-rabbit, entirely taken by surprise.

“Wh...What?”

“Yes, we should go before dawn, it's one hour later than here in Germany, come on!”

He had always prided himself in being quick-witted, but on this particular occasion his talent seemed to have abandoned him. He sat heavily on the mattress, trying to make sense of all this absurd affair.

“Now Paul,” he began slowly, his mind trying to fill the blanks, “is anybody at home aware you're here tonight?'

“Oh no, for sure! I never tell them where I go – they never listen to me anyway, and Carrie would worry. It's my bed after all.”

“Did you…did you travel on your own before?”

“Oh yes! I've been to see Hitler plenty of times. I mean, just his room and office and whatnot, he wasn't there of course, you have to go at night when everybody is sleeping. I just ask the bed to take me when it's safe, and it does! It's a clever old bed, it waits for the room to be empty and locked.”

It was a good thing he was already seated, or else he could have fainted. This eight years old had visited Hitler's headquarters on his own! Several times! Suddenly, a suspicion arose in his mind:

“Tell me Paul, have you… have you done anything there on the time you went? Touched anything?”

The child laughed:

“Why of course Mister Browne, that's the whole point of it! You go and move the furniture a bit, write things on the walls, take papers away, and put castor oil and pepper and bad eggs in every glass you find.”

His expression grew serious.

“I know it's naughty and you shouldn't do it, but the Nazis are very bad and we have to stop them. So I help. They don't understand who messes up with the room. They think it's a ghost or something, or a spy. I've heard someone on the radio say Hitler doesn't sleep any more, and I've got the lists and maps I've stolen, they look kind of important I think? Auntie Eglantine explained it all to me: Germany is hard to beat because they have all these strategies we didn't expect and that took everyone by surprise. But now they are confused because their plans go missing and they don't know what to do!”

Since he was too flummoxed to respond, Paul continued:

“Now there's one last thing I need to do, and I didn't want to go alone, since it's more complicated than just playing tricks. There is this secret safe room where they keep all the super secrete plans of attack. All the army's instructions! I think it's guarded at night but we can just appear right inside and they'll never know we're there! Then we take the plans and give them to the British army, and then we'll win and the war will be over at last! Wouldn't that be great, Mister Browne?”

Lost in thought, he nodded slowly, fascinated:

“Yes, my boy, it sure would be.”

 

Though incredibly dangerous, Paul's actions had been devilishly clever. Random acts of childish vandalism weren't easily accounted for in the heart of the Kommandantur, where every door must be tripled locked. There had been several assassinations attempts on Hitler that year, the German headquarters must have been sent into a spiral of conspiratorial theories. Even better, some probably thought the Chancellor was responsible for all this nonsense. It was a damned wonder Paul had never been caught.

“Paul,” he began carefully, not really sure if there was a point in scolding a child who had tried to scare off Hitler with magic and pranks, and wondering what a responsible adult should say in such a situation, “what you did was very brave. But I'm not certain… Well… Why did you do it without telling anybody? It was an extremely dangerous thing to do on your own.”

That serious look again. He knew of course the Rawlins had been through a lot, losing their home and parents, and then being held hostage by Nazis, only to see their… what was he to them, really? Not their guardian, surely. He hadn't done such a spectacular job of it if he was. Well, to see him run away from them because he was too weak to stand the happiness they were offering him. Paul's face was now the face of a child of the war, determined and focused. He had seen this face before; it was a face with a purpose.

“When you can do something in a time like this, you have to do it – that's what Auntie Eglantine always says. That's what you said too, when you left. Carrie says that a lot, and she trains to shoot arrows and stones in the yard when Auntie Eglantine isn't watching. I hate the war, it's terrible and we should stop it now.”

Blue eyes looked at him intently, and suddenly the child was back, helpless and vulnerable, so much that it hurt him:

“And… I wanted you to come back. It's so gloomy at home without you, nobody's juggling any more, and Auntie Eglantine is always sad… Everyone is sad. So I decided I should do something.”

“Oh, Paul.”

What could he do, really, but hug the small, unhappy hero with pride, his emotions too raw to be formulated, as he tried not to cry in his blond hair. Once again, he had been a fool, and a terrible role-model. He had wanted to be part of the war when all Eglantine and Paul ever did was trying to put an end to it from the outside, without guns, without bombs, without taking people away from their family. He had missed this fact, busy as he was being overwhelmed by his love for them. Because he did love them, and why he wouldn't let himself face that was beyond him.

Once they had both collected themselves, having had a moment to think on what should be done, he said:

“Listen, it was wrong of you not to let Miss Price know what you intended to do, or that you would visit me tonight. She's your guardian, and she's the witch in charge you know, I am certain she would have listened to your plan. This is something that needs to be discussed with her too, so I want you to come back home and bring her here as fast as you can. Here,” he rummaged into his package, found a pen and paper and quickly scratched an elusive note that would make sure she would not dismiss Paul's claim as childish fantasy. It was after all the middle of the night, and he wasn't certain she would be thrilled to be woken up on such absurd allegations.

“But she will be so mad at me!” Paul complained.

“I solemnly swear you won't get punished for this. You have Emelius Browne's word, young lad,” he stated seriously, hand on his heart. This very word had been rather worthless in the past decades, but the children, for some mysterious reason, always seemed to trust him. Of course, Eglantine knew better than that.

 

Eglantine. With this whole crazy business, he was going to see her again, he realised as the bed took off. After all the letters and the liberties he had taken in them, he suddenly felt like he was meeting a whole new person, a stranger who had not met him at his most annoying, and for some reason that made him all the more nervous.

He was still chewing on that nervousness when the unmistakable sound of the bed reappearing behind him was heard. He braced himself, not daring to turn around. Rumpled sheets, sharp breathing, anxious footsteps on the cold ground and then, an imperious, offended voice:

“Professor, I demand to know what this is all about!”

He smiled to himself. She was back into his life. He faced her, peach dressing gown hastily thrown over her nightwear, hair slightly disheveled, and a positively crossed face. Oh he knew this face perfectly well. He had privately delighted in making that expression appear, and though she was obviously sleepy too – was that a sheet mark on her cheek? – she looked as glorious as she had in that library, on Portobello Road, everywhere he had behaved frustratingly.

“I knew I would see this nightgown again,” he commented fondly, fully aware that would only serve to aggravate her. Sure as eggs, she strode to him accusingly:

“What is happening, why was I awoken by Paul who said he was visiting you, what is the matter? Is any of you in danger? What has he been doing, and the bed, your note… what is the meaning of this, Mister Browne?”

He caught her wrists in mid-air, slowly taking them down to her sides, and finally took a good look at her. He saw the fear in her eyes, and how tired she was, a tiredness that ran much deeper than what you are bond to feel when you have to wake up in the middle of the night. And it still was her face, the same face he contemplated when she read, on windy nights, by the chintz lamp next to the couch.

“Miss Price,” he said quietly, trying to soothe, “it's fine, everyone is safe, and I will explain everything in a moment. But as there is no emergency, I suggest we just take this time to greet each other because it's been so long, and it is so good to see you.”

There was a second of silence before he felt all the tension in her body dissolve and she practically fell in his arms, hugging him tightly, ginger and sage and salt washing over him in a wave of emotions.

“Pardon me, it's simply… the bed and… I was so scared. I feel like a fool,” she breathed, “realising that sort of things was still possible.”

Though that indeed seemed hard to understand, he thought he knew why neither of them had hinted at that solution. He had deserted them. This is not how any of them was calling it, but it was how it felt, underneath it all. The letters were one thing, but actually disturbing what was, fundamentally, a voluntary isolation, had never seemed like an option. Why go to war at all if he could be home by bed every night? And why fight, really, when you could just…

“Who said there was no emergency?” a decided voice interrupted. “We've got to go and rob the Nazis' plans!”

He was glad he was holding Eglantine, because she probably would have fallen down in shock.

“Well, now young man, not so fast, I think you've got some explaining to do first.”

 

As they sat on the bed side by side, he kept holding her hand while Paul retold his incredible adventures in Germany. In the end, it took all of Eglantine's poise to properly scold him, flabbergasted as she still was.

“But the more urgent question is,” she concluded after a half-hearted lecture, “what are we going to do now.”

“Now? You mean… you actually want to comply with his plan? Eglantine, you cannot be serious.”

“Well I don't see why not. It's actually quite sensible,” she stated, looking at Paul with fondness. “I've been sitting at my house doing nothing for months, forgetting I could use magic, so much that someone else apparently felt he needed to take over. If the bed can take us inside a locked room, I say we at least try it, for a second, to see if it's really safe. If those really are all the battle plans, imagine what it could mean. The war would be over in a matter of weeks. Father always said strategy was the key in combat, and that guessing your enemy's moves the true game changer. Besides, apparently it's now or never, am I right Paul?”

“Well I'm not sure but there was tomorrow's date on that paper I stole the other day, and there was a lot of red ink so I thought...”

He handed her the page, and her eyebrows furrowed as she read:

“They're planning on a huge raid over London. It says the routes are to be kept secret, to avoid protective measures on our side; they're targeting the main industrial sites.”

She looked up at him. She did all sorts of things, he knew, when she had that light in her eyes.

“This is insane. You're both behaving completely unreasonably, if I may say so.”

He had no reason to be surprised, he had seen her command an army and being taken down by an explosion without seeming very much worse for the wear, if the way she dismissed his flirtatious remarks with a long-suffering shake of the head that night was anything to go by. Comparing this fond memory to the endless amounts of potatoes and possible bullets that were waiting for him in the foreseeable future, he came to see what she meant. The war could go on for years. This would take minutes, and might save countless lives. They were the only ones who could do it.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Let me at least get a gun.”

It was lucky they were in the armoury, even if he really wasn't the best shot of his regiment. He hated guns, they were the exact opposite of magic. There was no illusion in them, not an ounce, they would tear through any fantasy and any trick you might try, reduce you to your basic properties, meat and blood, fragile flesh, definitively. Still, it was better than a pillow.

As they laid together on the bed, waiting for departure, Eglantine's head came close to his shoulder and lightly rested there. They said nothing, listening to Paul as he shouted:

“To the safe of the German headquarters, when there's nobody watching!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm holding on to my seat. Come to think of it, it was all a bit misguided to drop magic in 1940... I mean come on. Why go to war when you have a magic bed, man? Get a grip, will you.  
> Title from "Wait", from Sweeney Todd again, which is kind of appropriate here I think...


	7. Whatever the form of the storm

They landed in pitch darkness, and after a moment of silent panic, he finally managed to grab the headlamp in his package, the British military equipment be blessed. They discovered they were inside an actual safe, not much larger than the bed itself, and guarded by a heavily reinforced door. Metal cases were lined up against the walls, and Paul, putting a finger on his lips, began to rummage through them quietly. The child had been right: this was all in all relatively secure since there was little reason for anybody to enter this room at 2 in the morning. And if anybody tried, they would hear them come a long way. But as he took a peak at the pile of files Paul was heaping up on the mattress, a different problem struck him:

“Erm… I'm afraid I can't read German,” he whispered, feeling like a fool.

“Who cares, let's just take everything,” said an overly optimistic Paul.

“I can,” Eglantine intervened, managing to sound haughty. “Pass me the box on your left, please.”

Pretty soon it became obvious that the documents stocked there were all of vital importance to the Reich, even though a number of them were just lists of potential spies, or intelligence about the British strategic stakes.

“Now that is extremely good blackmail material on some Italian generals, but I don't see any...ah! Here they are.”

She had opened a new box, taking out dozens of very official looking maps stamped with the swastika.

“Oh my, those are really all the plans for the Western front, Paul was right...”

They looked through it quickly, before charging the heavy box on the bed. It would have been unwise to stay much longer, as their presence could always be detected, but Emelius suddenly said:

“Wait.”

“What is it? We have to leave now before anyone notices!”

“We can't let this be,” he waved, lost in his thoughts, looking around the awful room. “All those lists, all this… terrible information can still be used. And they'll know the plans have been stolen. No, we've got to destroy it.”

He retrieved his old box of matches from his bag, most of them were too wet, but they still could light up the occasional contraband cigarettes on cold nights, or burn out errant flees (a rare but painful occurrence). He managed to light one, and began to spread the content of the cases over the floor, to help the fire spread out. They waited long enough to see the flames grow higher, and all squeezed up on the bed, Paul awkwardly announcing: “London War Cabinet, but not in front of everyone!” as the room began to fill with smoke.

 

Truth to be told, they had not considered that part of the plan very thoroughly. For one thing, though they knew that a war cabinet existed in the capital, they weren't exactly sure where. Which is probably why Emelius didn't expected to nearly collide with a smoked ham hanging from the ceiling as they appeared in what seemed to be a larder.

“What you just did was very wise,” he heard Eglantine say behind him in a low voice. He almost laughed. Him, wise? The world must have turned on its head for him to appear that way, but thinking of those ominous lists in the grim safe reminded him that it was very much the case. He hoped those papers burned up quickly, and if the entire headquarters went up in smoke too that was just as well.

“There's people out there,” Paul whispered, pointing at the door under which a ray of light could be seen, footsteps and typewriting noises echoing in the distance. Apparently, war never stopped at the War Cabinet, and they should have expected it, but a small coastal cottage and forgotten barracks were places far remote from the heart of the conflict.

“I'm sorry but I cannot very well go out of here and salute Winston Churchill in my nightwear,” Eglantine commented, straightening up on the bed as if Churchill's venerability gave him the ability to see through walls.

“He'd be a lucky fellow if you did, although I admit he'd probably spit out his cigar,” he smiled to her, as she shook her head in disapprobation.

“And I don't particularly care for being seen here in my uniform by the whole military staff, they might take me for a deserter.”

“I can go!” cried Paul enthusiastically. “I'll deliver the box, they won't be scared of me or drop their cigars!”

Now Eglantine was staring at him in a way that clearly said he was being, once again, a poor influence. Nevertheless, this probably was their only option.

“If we really must,” she sighed. “I'll write you a note. Try to explain – not that anyone in their right mind would believe a word of this story, but we have to make sure they at least check the documents. Come back as quickly as you can, and be very, very careful. We're heading right back at the shack, before anyone notices Mr Browne has left his post, and we cannot be caught here – Heavens know what they would believe.”

She gestured at Emelius to bend over, so that she could write on his back. He really wondered what one could possibly write to a bunch of ministers who were about to be offered the German plan of attack by a boy of eight springing out of a closet in the middle of the night. “Dear Winston, we collected this for you, wishing you well, Signed: Eglantine, Paul and Emelius from Pepperinge Eye”? Holy Moses, this was the strangest night of his life.

 

“Now Paul. Promise me you'll just drop the box, give the note and run back here immediately. They'll be surprised, take advantage of it to disappear.”

They both watched him as he merrily closed the door behind him, carrying the heavy box with some difficulty. After a minute or two, startled cries were heard in the corridor, resulting in Eglantine grabbing his hand anxiously. She kept squeezing it as they waited, pricking their ears.

“What am I doing with these children?” he heard her whisper as if to herself.

“He'll be fine, don't worry. He sounds so much like a Londoner I doubt anyone is going to feel threatened by him, and you know he's quick.”

“But he could have died! Doing all this alone – and even tonight, God, what was I thinking, I got carried away as always, that is not what a good guardian should do! I should have waited until tomorrow morning. And I should have noticed something was going on with him; you noticed, and you weren't even there! I… they don't...”

She was growing restless, attempting to stand up and reaching for the door – he noticed only then that she was barefoot, had been all night. He caught her by the shoulder:

“Eglantine, please, it's all right, they'll just think he got lost, and if he's not back in a minute, I'll go after him.”

“They don't have to be forced into acting like I did, mindlessly,” she stated, looking at her feet.

“I don't think that's how you acted. I don't think they do either. Look at me, you saved us all that night, and not just us, probably the whole country, who's to say? You're the greatest inspiration anyone can hope for, and those children are lucky to have you.”

He paused, taking a moment to linger on her tousled hair, the sheet mark on her cheek that hadn't, amazingly, faded away, resisting the urge to follow it with his thumb.

“I'm lucky to have you.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but Paul burst in, jumping at their side in one hop:

“Quick, they wanted to question me, and I ran!”

As they heard the door being slammed open, the bed disappeared into the night.

 

And back they were, right in the middle of the ammunition stocks, not an hour after leaving the place, with the feeling of having done near to nothing, when they had potentially turned the war around.

Paul explained he had found offices, many of them, behind the door, and that he had managed not to be noticed by the many typists and phone operators who worked there, until he spotted an important-looking man to whom he had handed the box and the note.

“They sure were astonished, like Mr Jelk when Charlie told him the other day he only believed what he saw!”

As Emelius grinned, imagining the vicar's indignant face, he told them he had vanished before anyone could fully understand what was happening.

“I explained it was the real thing, not a trick – sorry Mister Browne, an illusion. Oh I so hope they will believe it. It was a grand adventure, surely not as nice as Nabumboo but sometimes you've got to be serious too. I'm a bit tired now.”

Sleepiness seemed to have taken him entirely by surprise, and by the end of his sentence he was falling backward on the mattress. He looked at Eglantine, who smiled tenderly at the sleeping child.

“Happen what may now.”

He sat next to her on the side of the bed, his heavy army boots hanging close to her naked feet, a sight that for some reason almost made him blush.

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “In any case, I do hope we manage to get you and your fellow soldiers out of here. It doesn't seem like a very proper environment to me.”

She scanned the hangar like she would have looked at a dead insect.

“Oh, it does have its charms,” he tried cheerfully, “for example did you know that the uniform did wonders for one with the ladies?”

“I'm certain the three cows and one goat that live in the nearby farm think you look very nice.”

He laughed and nestled against her – he had written in one of his letters that the barracks were so isolated they barely saw a living soul that wasn't either a colonel or a pig – but he had expected that one to get censured. In response she only put her head on his shoulder, sighing a tired sigh:

“It does get lonely without you at home. Life is just a bit less… lively. Compared to what it used to be.”

He knew those weren't normal circumstances, and that she would never confess such a thing in the light of day. Still, he took what he could take, and was grateful for it.

He could have asked, if he were to come back, what right he had to stay there after all. Ask if it was his home, if she wanted him there, in their life, and how. He could get his own place, a job, be at her door every Sunday with a bunch of flowers and a smile, he could… but that would be too clear, too simple, wouldn't it? She expected him to come back and live with them, the specifics staying forever blurry. She seemed to find it absolutely natural, and he still couldn't figure out why.

“Do you still read by that chintz lamp in the evening?” he asked out of nowhere.

“Yes. This is where I read your letters, too. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he lied, turning his head ever so slightly so that his nose would brush against her hair. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly.

They stood like that in silence for a while. Then she began to shiver, he commented on her bare feet and clothing, which earned him a sharp retort, and they both knew the time had come to say goodbye, but neither of them was ready to acknowledge it. Finally, she said she should bring back Paul and see him to bed.

“But I'm confiscating his bedknob, be sure of it. I don't want him on any adventure that I don't know of.”

“Will you come back?” he couldn't help but ask.

She sighed again.

“If the war doesn't end soon, if it gets too long, or if they try to move you elsewhere, yes. But we can't… I suppose it would be wrong, in a way, to abuse...”

“You're right of course”, he said quickly, since she was, because in this case she could as well take him home now with her. He knew she knew it, and it killed him.

“So I guess it's goodbye for now.”

“Yes. Goodbye for now. I'm sure it will only be for a short while. And we can always write.”

“Right.”

They looked at each other, a bit embarrassed and a bit desperate.

“Go now,” he squeezed her hand. “Sleep. Oh, and before I forget, I promised Paul he won't be punished for this.”

They were doing better, because she looked indignant again.

“You did no such thing!”

“I'm sorry if I overstepped, but I'm certain he knew of the consequences. He did it anyway. This isn't a child being naughty. It seemed to me this would be rather pointless.”

She stared at him curiously, like she did sometimes, her expression undecipherable.

“Do you know, I hate it when you're right. Oh, these children will be the death of me. Off we go.”

“Goodbye my dear,” he said quietly.

She raised her hand, then, before seemingly deciding against it, only smiled sadly and turned the bedknob using Paul's hand. Her eyes where on him the whole time it took for the bed to disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes well maybe don't go to war when you have the equivalent of a teleport device at home. Maybe do this or something of the kind. Disney patriotism, I can't even. 
> 
> Title from "I've Got You to Lean On", from Anyone Can Whistle, one famous Sondheim flop, but I love the whole thing so much, I recommend it even if the plot is rather weird.


	8. Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for careless uchrony: we're diverting the course of WW2 just because we can. A 21 months-long war take us to May 1941, that is just before the German attack on USSR. I couldn't be bothered to do an extensive study of the actual historical possibilities here, but I liked to think about it.

 

Amazingly, the war, that great, terrible, seemingly unstoppable machine, came to an abrupt halt in the following weeks. It began slowly, with vague rumours of one of the most secret bunkers of the Reich having burnt _from the inside_. It was a locked-room mystery newspapers were eager to solve, but it had tremendous repercussions in the days that followed. Two of the most prominent officers of the regime were accused of high treason and promptly executed. This led to an upheaval in the Austrian part of the Reich, that was contained with some difficulty. Upon these circumstances, the Allies made a spectacular breakthrough on the Western front, simultaneously attacking the weakest spots on the coast. Italy withdrew from the conflict, signing treaties hastily. Two days later, a coup succeeded in Berlin, and Hitler was imprisoned. The chaos that ensued allows USSR to launch an attack on the Eastern front, reacting to intelligence over a plan of invasion on the Axis part. Meanwhile, the British Navy orchestrated landings in France, successively liberating Belgium and Netherlands. After that, it only took a month or so for the two lines of attack to meet in Berlin, where negotiations were still being held. This had been a 21 months war – no one dared believe it, the turning of the tide so sudden, and the celebrations were a bit tainted by incredulity.

By sheer luck, Mister Browne's regiment had not been sent abroad – it was one of the less trained, and before they had time to move them to the mainland, demobilisation was announced. It took him another three weeks to actually come back, the country being upside down due to the surprise victory, trains overload with soldiers and Londoners who had run away from the Blitz.

Eglantine and the Rawlins had taken part in the local festivities, the children so eager to go dancing and eating their eyes out. She couldn't deny she was happy, yes, very much so, but she also felt a bit stunned by all this. She danced with the other villagers, not really paying attention to the way she moved, which led to some astonishment among the eldest residents – Mrs Hobday declared herself fully impressed. Alcohol ran free, and she had to escape the vicar's multiple attempts at courtship – later in the night, he even tried to kiss her, twice, and as she couldn't very well turn him into a rabbit, unwilling to be burnt at the stake so soon after completing her patriotic mission, she had only slapped him. Fortunately, he was not to remember any of it in the morning, having been rather inebriated when he had slurred that she was the Suzanne of Pepperinge – God only knew what he meant by that, she had never paid too much attention at mass, always using this time to daydream about mechanics, or magic, or… well about anything that wasn't Mister Jelk, muttering about _Hebrew_ _s_ _13.3_.

It was all for good, really, and seeing Carrie, Charlie and Paul smile like children of their age was all that she could ever ask for. The future looked full of promises again, and they could plan, they could…

“When Mister Browne is gonna come back, we'll go to the beach! It's getting warmer, we could pack a pick-nick – when are they gonna sell salami again, do you think? And then, and then, I'll get a bathing suit! With stripes!”

But her – she couldn't quite put her finger on it, something was lacking in her, she was unable to fully embrace the excitement and cheers, she felt… strangely empty. Her mission was accomplished, all right. She had reached her purpose. For years now she had been preparing for it, and now that it was done, that he had finally managed to make herself useful in the best possible way, she suddenly was disoriented. If she had not had the children in her life, she might have collapsed in some way or other, the tension finally leaving her body, but now she could measure the benefits of a more balance life. There were indeed so many things they had to do together, so many sights to see and dances to invent. She could experience with magic again, looking for new spells, spells that would help reconstruction, or simply do laundry – there was no small liberation after all. But now… right now… she needed to do some thinking, and figure out who she was again, now that she wasn't Miss Eglantine Price, solitary, resourceful, _useful_ spinster, that dear Miss Price, her father was such a respectable man, I've heard she can read Greek and Latin, did you know she adopted a cat lately?

And she still wasn't a mother, would probably never really be. Yet when Paul woke up in the middle of the night in tears, claiming the Germans had broken through his window and were taking Carrie away, she held him against her for hours, quietly repeating, over and over like a lullaby:

“The war is over, the war is over, the war is over” until she could finally believe it.

 

*

Soldiers were arriving in groups every day now at the village. They didn't quite know when to expect him – his last letters had been elusive, and her mirror spells unsuccessful. So when it finally happened, convenient as should be, she wasn't even home. She had been out for the day, trying to find a farmer willing to exchange edible greens for all those rabbits she had “bred in her yard for years now” – really birds and mice she had transfigured, the rabbit spell being almost permanent on small creatures, a discovery that had kept them healthy through the war, even if she felt it as a breach of her pride that her strong suit happened to be in that specific area of magic. Stopping on her way back to complete her groceries at Mrs Hobday's shop, she refrained from asking about the troops, for if she couldn't do much except bring up new rabbits to the world these days, she could at least be reasonable.

So naturally, when she set foot in the living-room, rather tired by a long day of negotiations, and saw Emelius Browne casually walking out of her kitchen, an apron tied around his waist and a homemade-looking flower crown in his hair, flour all over his uniform, she dropped her bags and – not fainted, that would never do and she was first and foremost practical, but she would admit to a slight weakness in the knees. In two strides he was at her side, holding her, hugging her so tight she happily gave up on oxygen for a second. He had never hugged her before, she was always the one to hold him, the one to pull him to her and then… oh no that was out of the question. Breath a bit short, they stood face to face, their forehead barely touching, taking a moment to collect themselves.

“But… but I thought… when did you arrive? No one, I didn't know...”

“About three hours ago. Don't worry, the children greeted me properly. I didn't expect you to pass all your days anxiously looking at the door for an old crook like me. Sooner or later, I always find my way in.”

“Well I'm so glad...” she said softly, feeling his breath passing over her mouth as he looked down, tilting his head ever so slightly, and it was almost like a kiss, like the one they had shared on the platform before he left, the kiss he had forgotten everything about, but not her, and now she wasn't sure she could feel the floor under her feet any more, when Charlie entered the room yelling “She's back! She's back! Everybody's home!”, and she abruptly fell down from maybe a couple of inches, her heels clicking on the parquet. Before she had time to wonder about the strange phenomenon, hell broke loose over the cottage, all three children running in to dance and cheer around them, even bringing a very reluctant Cosmic Creepers into the festivities.

Carrie insisted that she should wear a flower crown too, since after all she had made one for each of them, and there were eglantines in hers of course, so there was no point in being so stubborn – she should have reacted more strongly to the young girl calling her “stubborn” under her own roof, but she was simply overwhelmed, and her head was spinning with all the dancing that was taking place.

Paul was especially radiant; the had not told his siblings yet about their latest adventure, and she knew they were going to resent them for a while, but tonight she would not spoil the mood. They ate the shepherd's pie Emelius had prepared, making fun of him for being so eager after months of corned beef and boiled potatoes, and he pretended to demonstrate a magic trick that would make a large portion of dessert disappear into thin air, a proposal that earned him a few raised eyebrows. In all honesty, she could have cried with joy, and that must have shown somehow, because Carrie whispered in her ear later in the night:

“I'm so glad you're happy again, Aunt Eglantine.”

They sat together for hours in front of the chimney, asking Mister Browne questions, to which he often answered with the most eccentric half-lies he could come up with, underlining that the honest, boring reply he would almost always have really was “peeling potatoes and scrubbing the floor”. She was very aware of the way he was leaning against her on the couch, but they were actually all crammed together, the children rolling over each other with laughter, asking for another retelling of what Emelius decorously called the “juggling can incident”.

“And what are you going to do now, Mister Browne? I say you need to stay here and eat your eyes out: you're thin as a lark!” Charlie exclaimed.

“Charles!” she scolded, but Emelius only laughed.

“You're absolutely right, my lad, and I also need a bath and a close shave, I rather think I look like a bear. But after that, I'm sure I can make myself useful somewhere – people these days must crave for a little entertainment. And if not, I could always turn myself into a rabbit again and dig a nice little burrow.”

“We still have hutches in the yard, if you're so eager,” she commented flatly, giving rise to cries of indignation among the children. He just smiled at her, a crooked smile, that said: “You know me, I'm always eager.”

 

They had to carry the children to bed very late in the night. They had fallen asleep one after the other on the rug, the party turning quieter and quieter until it was just the two of them, whispering by the lamp, flames low in the fire pit.

“I'll prepare your room,” she said eventually, feeling quite sleepy herself.

“Oh no need, Charlie took care of that the moment I arrived, he seemed scared I would disappear again and check into the local inn… But really, are you certain this won't be an inconvenience for you? I can very well find...”

She stopped him, grabbing him by the arm to give weight to her words.

“Mister Browne, you're the picture of good education, but please don't believe for a moment I ransacked the German headquarters and nearly walked on the Prime Minister without my shoes on only to let you sleep on some uncomfortable bed for five pounds a night!”

He laughed and bid her goodnight, quickly kissing her on the cheek in the most casual manner imaginable. As she walked back to her own room, she found herself staggering a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from, again, Mame.


	9. Thoroughly Modern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're in for some good old-fashioned tension.

The following days were quite surreal to him – he had heard it would be difficult to go back to civil life, but he had never felt like a real soldier anyway. People in the village all greeted him like a war hero nonetheless, and Mrs Hobday was all over herself, assaulting him with questions and catching him up on all the gossip in Pepperinge Eye. There were few men young enough to have been enlisted in the village, but they all gathered at the pub, telling each other epic stories he had heard and refused to believe before. There he performed his usual tricks, amassing quite a success, but whenever someone asked him about his war experience he was embarrassed, for most of these men had been on the front, and had suffered a great deal – he almost felt like he had a cushy lot for all those months. It didn't help that he was staying at Miss Price's – something that elicited less than subtle jokes, especially from the eldest and most inebriated customers of the establishment. Though they all laugh, he was unwilling to make any comment on a subject that could hurt their precarious arrangement.

On the other hand, home was just delightful. For one thing, home was home, and that alone was hard enough to accept that he regularly sat awake at night, trying to wrap his head around how lucky he was, having done nothing, nothing really, except for peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors, nothing that could have made him deserve this.

Though he was exhausted and, Charlie had been right, in need of physical rest, he often found himself unable to sleep, walking around the cottage or sitting in the garden, trying to erase a flower-crowned Eglantine from his mind.

 

A week or two after his return, he was standing in the yard at night, smoking one of his army cigarette against the wall, when Eglantine came out of the house, still wearing the dress she had been wearing that day, but without her make-up. It was very late, and she must have put her clothes back on after going to bed. The night was rather warm and very blue despite the hour, the moon shining bright.

“It's two in the morning, shouldn't you be sleeping?” he asked. She had been like a quiet apparition, and he did not know what to say to her, a bit taken aback.

“Shouldn't you?”

She had walked to him, undisturbed, leaning against the wall by his side with more abandon than he had ever seen her display. She closed her eyes, seemingly overtired.

“I'm sure you're aware smoking is a rather nasty habit,” she remarked nonchalantly, lacking her usual mordancy.

“I'm afraid the army has affected my manners quite poorly. But don't worry, the children never witnessed this. We don't want Charlie to cough his lungs out to impress the girls.”

She hummed in approbation, and they stood still for a moment in companionable silence. After a while he heard her ask:

“Would you mind sharing?”

This shook him out of his torpor:

“Share? I didn't know you smoked, Miss Price.”

To his shame, he was unable to keep the judgement out of his voice, but she didn't even react to it.

“Oh I smoked my share when I was young – it enraged my father, which was rather the point – I used to sneak out at night to have a cigarette by the rose bushes, or to negotiate with some farmer boy for a pack. I stopped at once when my father died: it was that kind of habit, but sometimes, on nights like this...”

He found himself staring at her, astound, and handed her the cigarette without really thinking. She took it between two fingers elegantly, like something precious, and took a long puff, pausing to savour it, eyes closed, a picture he found uncommonly wanton. When she finally released the smoke, her face surrounded by an evanescent cloud, he suspected he was beginning to get flushed and quickly said the first thing that came to mind.

“Farmer boys, eh? Did you also cut your skirt and bob your hair?”

To his growing astonishment, she only chuckled:

“Those were the days, Mister Browne, and I can only begin to imagine what you were like yourself at that age.”

She gave him the cigarette back, an innocent gesture that, he now realised it, was in fact far more intimate than anything they had done before. He looked at the thin cylinder that glowed in the night, feeling it was blushing just like he was, and brought it to his lips, thinking of distance and touch. He only stopped inhaling when he saw her looking at him as if to say “hold on you're going to breathe the whole thing in”. She was completely right, he had been a disaster as a young man, both shy and boisterous, swaggering, restless and a bit of a show off. A real nuisance through and through.

“I would love to have known you then,” he said, voice made a bit hoarse by the smoke.

“Oh no you wouldn't,” she laughed, taking the cigarette back. “We would have hated each other. I was… still very much my father's daughter, I'm afraid, and a bit of a snub. Very resistant to magicians in any case.”

“You still are quite resistant to magicians,” he pointed out playfully, remembering her reaction when she had realised the famous Professor Browne was a street illusionist.

She smiled and looked briefly at the cigarette before taking another puff.

“I've learned to make exceptions.”

That sounded like a general statement, if he considered the recent changes in her life and what he had gathered from previous conversations and mentions of her past; it very much made sense. Still, the idea of being an exception himself was rather exhilarating. Which is why he took the risk of saying what he was thinking out loud for once:

“Which makes you an exceptional woman, my dear.”

She paused, shooting him a strange look, before commenting dismissively:

“Future will tell. If I intend to ever find out, though, I should probably stop doing that.”

She inhaled the smoke again.

“But this is an exceptional cigarette.”

“Oh yes,” he took it back, his hand brushing against hers, and raised it to his mouth with slightly trembling fingers, “sometimes I just cough it in instead of smoking it, but you know these army cigarettes just punch you through your lungs, not really worth the exception I'm afraid. But when I hesitate, I tell myself that I could have died in the war, and that will at least kill me more slowly.”

What had been intended like a light remark plunged her into a deep silence, and the cigarette went back and forth between them until there was nothing left of it. His mouth was burning a little, and he was about to ask her some silly question about her youth again when she said quietly:

“I tried spell upon spell, asking for you not to die in battle, when you left. Now you're giving me reasons to confiscate your tobacco, too.”

He turned his head to her, completely stricken.

“You really tried to use magic to keep me alive?”

There was no such magic as far as he knew, but she had always experimented, and some of his made-up charms had actually gave birth to several new versions and by-spells from her early days of practice. He couldn't blink the surprise out of his face, even when she was glaring at him like this all of a sudden, looking a bit hurt.

“God knows if it ever made any difference but yes, of course I did. I had to try, for all of us. Spells to keep you away from danger and injuries, from illnesses; I used them on the children too.”

Against his will, he shook his head in disbelief. He simply couldn't bring himself to imagine she had put some much effort into protecting him, him, from the mess he had thrown himself into, of his own free will, stupidly and relentlessly, craving for an heroic deed that would have make him worth something at last. The faces of the injured soldiers he had crossed path with on his way back appeared in his mind, staring. He was so bloody tired.

“Well my dear,” he chuckled sombrely, “you shouldn't have waisted perfectly good magic on an inconsequential fellow such as me. I'm sure there were much more valuable lives to save in the grand scheme of things than one Emelius Browne, Professor of Nothing and Buffoon Extraordinaire.”

The slap was certainly not meant to hurt him, but it took him by complete surprise, as she made him step back against the wall, advancing on him, a finger planted on his chest. Her face was suddenly very close, and she looked positively furious. Eglantine was often annoyed, sometimes he pushed her too far, he knew, but that usually ended up with long ears and white fur. She never lost her composure.

“We spent months in this house worrying about you, everyday, because _you_ insisted to leave and to fight this war. We hoped, and I cast spells, wishing it would all end well, and in the end we put an end to it, also for you, and for all the people like you who would have had inconsequential deaths. I do magic to spare lives – it's not about being heroic or patriotic. This is real, Mister Browne, and don't you dare, _don't you dare_ think of your life as if it meant nothing, as if it amounted to nothing, not when you live in this family, not when you're here with me!”

She stopped her diatribe abruptly, anger turning into something like fear, and she clutched his shirt helplessly, looking away.

“I… I'm sorry Miss Price, I didn't quite realise how serious you were. I think that, looking back at it now, I have been rather selfish in departing like I did. I never meant for you to feel responsible for me, but considering everything that happened… I believe I needed to find my place in all this, to make myself useful...”

There, he had said it. It was hard to tell where that had all come from, but he suspected he had been chewing over it for quite some time. Her gaze raised toward his for a brief moment, and as she examined him carefully, he saw sadness spread over her features before she looked down and pressed her face against his chest as if to hide there in shame.

“God, no, it's me, I'm the one who is sorry, that was… Of course. I'm so awfully sorry, I don't… I don't feel like myself these days, if that makes sense to you?”

“It very much does,” he nodded in a whisper.

And with that, they both seemed to realise they were pressed against each other, the pressure Eglantine was exerting on him beginning to transform. He became aware of her breath, echoing his, of their faces, inches apart, of her hands on him, of her breasts against his shirt, of her legs that were almost entangled with his, of her eyes, growing wider, of the heat that came from both of their bodies… His pulse rocketed, sounds muffled. He looked down on her lips, thinking of the cigarette they had shared moments before, and how it would very much make sense if they just went on sharing their air, both of them shrouded by the smell of smoke, under the moonlight, and if they were to make, just this once, just for this one time – and he would be good, and he would behave then, he swore – if they were to make an exception.

She moved slightly, for a brief moment he felt her eyelashes brushing against his cheek, and then she was looking back, her bottom lip swollen as if it had just been bitten – but maybe he was staring too much, unable to focus.

“I should never have done that. Please pardon me. I never meant to hurt you.”

He found the guilt in her eyes almost unbearable. There was a soft hand on his cheek, where she had hit him, not daring to move.

“As far as slaps go, this was probably the gentlest in my long career. I hope that doesn't offend you, I barely felt a thing.”

Her laugh sounded a bit broken this time but, removing her hand, she quickly kissed him there, saying:

“Sometimes you're too good to me, Emelius Browne. And you don't even know it.”

She took a step back and he immediately missed her warmth. Feeling he must look like a damned fool, tottering against the wall like a fish out of water, he tried to change the subject:

“Speaking of being good, I think I've found myself an occupation that could only just begin to repay you for your kind hospitality.”

Before she could protest, he pointed out at the distant remains of the barn.

“Your workshop – I could rebuild it. It would amuse the children, and materials are not so hard to find now that the war is over. I'm no carpenter, but I could try. You know,” he added upon reflection, “and I don't mean it in any negative way, but you've lived on your own for quite some time, haven't you, and having a space for yourself, without the children, the cat, or even such charming company as myself to come and bother you at every minute of the day, I thought... it might do some good.”

He remembered how glad he had been, staring at the countless piles of cartridges he had to guard, and how that need for solitude had disturbed him at first, having never felt such an urge before. The pull had lingered, hence the nocturnal cigarettes. And now he suspected she might be feeling it too.

 

He didn't know what he had done to make her look at him like that, but he would very much like to make it happen again. Amazement, no, not quite, but possible… wonder. She was looking at him in wonder. He couldn't believe it.

“That's a marvelous idea. It doesn't have to be about me, but it's a wonderful idea. Although I want to make it clear that you don't owe me anything. You live here, you're alive, that's enough.”

“So let's decide it's nothing of the sort. Just something I really want to do.”

It seemed to strike another chord with her. That really was a strange night, with him saying all the right and wrong things in such a quick succession. He wondered if he would smoke all his pack in a row, then, or never be able to have one more cigarette in his life.

“It's the best reason there is,” she said quietly.

 

Later he caught himself wondering what she had meant by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the irony. So now who's pining and who wants to make himself useful? Sidenote because this won't be a thing, but I personally think the magic worked because, a regiment that stayed put in Middle England for that long, doing nothing? Unlikely.
> 
> Title from, would you believe it, Thoroughly Modern Millie, and let me just recommend this excellent, excellent performance : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hq2G5nC9mkk
> 
> Yes, I like to think about young Miss Price as a snubbish flapper on my free time. I mean, the dates coincide, and I know this is the British countryside but hell, a girl has to keep herself occupied.


	10. Of not believing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very strange existential crisis, and some Charlie time.

 

After that night she went through a weird phase. Things were getting out of hands. To think she used to spy through mirrors; these days she barely recognized herself whenever she passed in front of one by accident – tired, agitated, cheerful one minute and utterly dejected the next. She had trouble sleeping, except on some nights when she fell like a stone, waking up with the implacable impression of lost images and surges of vertigo. She stayed out of the house as much as she could, afraid the children would suffer from her mood swings – the changes seemingly so sudden, so mysterious, and this much instability was getting on her nerves as the only constant in her life. And there were times – how to put this exactly? – when she didn't quite touch the floor. It always happened discretely, as she pruned the roses in the garden, or looked for pickles in the pantry, or just brushed her hair and up she went, in the blink of an eye, a few inches above the ground, before being pulled down seconds later with no reasonable explanation. Her own magic was walking on its head, clearly, and that worried her even more than the rest, for a volatile witch was of no use to anyone, and in danger of becoming a nuisance to the neighbourhood.

She had hit him. She couldn't believe it, when he was simply… joking, probably. Hopefully. It was unacceptable. And having a smoke, more than twenty years after quitting! That was just grand, perfect.

The irony of it all was that she had spent so much time, at first – even if she was quite incapable of placing that exact period right now, was it from the start? – so much time asking herself if he was being real. Jests, tricks, jokes and exaggerations weren't exactly a safe ground, and she had tried to see through it – looking right through him.

 

Contrary to popular belief (Pepperinge Eye believed in all sorts of things), she had always lived a full life, because she had the sort of mind that would focus on a topic so much it would occupy all the space and block the landscape, becoming the landscape, spreading everywhere. It could be an engineering problem, the quest for a specific herb, the second battle of Newbury and its political consequences, or simply Keats. Oh, she knew how to keep herself entertained, and sometimes she was taken by the wind and the waves, completely so, without anyone or anything interfering – pure perceptions, pure thoughts, she had her moments of true bliss then.

That had changed with the children of course, and she had accessed a different kind of happiness, more diffuse perhaps though more complete in its way, and less expressible, at least for her. But now… she was noticing everything, every single thing at the same time, the light and the sounds and colours, her skin was tingling, her nerves were raw, the smells of soap, mint, cologne, roses and tobacco too strong, everywhere, and everything felt different to the touch, because suddenly she could touch, her fingers lingering on every surface she could grab, her head full to the brim and her heart exploding like those cotton flowers, soft, mushy, messy. She could barely walked in plain daylight without feeling absolutely overwhelmed.

There was that thing that no one knew about her, except perhaps for the children, innocently, bless them but they had seen her fly…:she would be a lady through and through, enduring and proper, perfect – but not to the very end. The act had its limits, and she her breaking point, she could, she would… Snap. That was what happened when you wanted something too much – said her father, the lulling voice of mass, women at the shops, even school. And she wanted… she had always wanted things too much. Which was precisely why she was the village's respected outcast, and not the proud mother of five, knitting sweaters in her parlour and waiting for death to come.

 

When they had met, he never seemed to leave her alone, even for a minute. And now he wanted, really wanted to give her some space, some peace, just when she knew she couldn't find any. She should have hit harder.

But no, never. She had wanted… If this was the result, she had never hit anyone in her life before, well the vicar hardly counted, not like that, not like it meant the world, and how awful it was, how awful that it was all that she could come up with, no, if that was the result, she would never want anything again. And he was so real. She could see it now. She could see him, she had seen him and couldn't quite… unsee… what had he written to her, something about her face, some time ago, she remembered, it had stricken her at the time, and she was making up things now, assumptions, but didn't it sound just like… no, better forget about that, irrelevant, jests, tricks and jokes.

Flair.

That was it then, wasn't it? Awful, simply awful. She never had that sort of flair, not an ounce in her, thank you very much, but he would, with a flair, wouldn't he? He would borrow her cigarette, thinking of touching her; he would push her against the wall, trading jibes, ruffling her clothes, he would kiss her breathlessly, muttering he loved her, he thought he loved her, please, grabbing her neck, not letting go, tasting like smoke, helpless, scratching the bricks for support, her legs failing her, he would tell her not to speak like that about herself, never like that, one could not say such things, he would…

 

Oh Lord, what was she saying.

Her feet slammed against the ground. She really needed sleep.

 

*

She was somehow forced back into her spirits a few weeks after the infamous night of the smoking, when Charlie's teacher brought him home more or less by the ear, shouting about an awful fight, a terrible attitude and broken teeth. Having no experience in dealing with such incidents, it took her some time to reconstruct the event, Charlie's defence and Miss Crawley's cries of indignation overlapping in a cacophony: apparently, the boy had thrown himself at one of his schoolmates, Julius Barns, after some sort of provocation. The fight had been rather nasty, although she couldn't understand if the adjective had sprung from the actual degree of violence or the drama participants and spectators had created around it. After decided but vague promises to Miss Crawley involving “drastic measures” that finally got her out of the house, she turned to the culprit, who was staring at the floor as if it had personally offended him. She sighed, then made it to the door:

“Why don't we talk about this outside?”

They were nearing the brightest days of summer; in fact, school was almost over, and it was really pitiful for Charlie to have got into trouble so close to the holidays, when she hadn't heard a negative comment about him all year.

“Are you going to shout at me too?” he asked angrily, still looking at his feet.

“This isn't really something that I do,” she pointed out with some haughtiness, although she had been very much tempted to yell these last weeks, being so out of sorts, when Paul had tried to give Cosmic Creeper a bath, destroying one of the bathroom, or when Mister Jelk had clumsily tried to invite her to dinner, but that was a whole different matter.

“Right.”

He reluctantly followed her in the yard, where she sat on the kitchen steps, patting down a spot next to her. Eyeing her with disbelief, he nevertheless complied. She imagined it must have been too relaxed a posture for her, in his mind, and it certainly was in her mind too, but these days she simply couldn't be bothered, and every muscle in her body protested against restrain and control. A tendency that apparently showed in her educative stance too, she gloomily noted.

“Charles, do you remember when we listened to that broadcast listing the casualties in the first weeks of the war?”

He cut her:

“I know what you mean. You can drop the moral tale.”

The boy was looking straight ahead, in a stare that tried very hard to be blank but mostly came out as defensive – and downright insolent too. He suddenly looked very much his age.

“Young man, you're treading on extremely thin ice at the moment, and you'll notice I'm still not shouting, but keep up with that attitude and I guarantee you I will consider the drastic measures Miss Crawley seemed to be so keen on. Now, I know for a fact that you don't think highly of violence in general, and you've got enough of a critical mind not to let your impulses rule. So I want to know exactly what happened. This is not like you.”

“What if it is, though?” he snapped. “What do you know, really? You didn't even want us in the first place.”

She felt the punch deeply in her stomach, violent bur predictable. He was lucky she refused to raise her voice as a principle – considering her recent state of nerves, it was a miracle in itself that she was able to remain calm in those circumstances. She closed her eyes briefly; when she opened them again, the first thing she saw was the planks and piles of bricks that were to serve to rebuild the barn.

“I was a different person when I met you, it's true, but you taught me many things that promptly changed my mind. You must realise I won't let anything or anyone separate us now. In a point of fact, there is nothing that makes me happier than knowing you'll grow in a world without war. I'm there, and I'm not going anywhere. And it would break my heart to know you think otherwise.”

Why was it such a hard speech to make, and why did she have to make it sound so rational? She often blamed herself for being so guarded, so serious with them. Children weren't supposed to read between your manners and restrain that you loved them so much sometimes it felt like your heart would burst, in the middle of the night, thinking that if anything ever happened to any of them, you wouldn't know how to go on. Still, it seemed to make a strong impression on Charlie, or at least shake his defence, for his gaze dropped to his feet again, voice trembling now:

“Perhaps it's me who's changed then. Perhaps you should let go of me because I don't deserve… I, what if I enjoyed punching that moron's face? What if I'm becoming someone nobody will like?”

He was so helpless she had to refrain from stroking his cheek or his hair. She was reasonably certain it would only alienate him more at that point, and there was no need for that.

“Charlie, what happened exactly? Did that boy say something to you?”

His gaze hardened.

“He said Mabel didn't like pretentious orphan boys, and she was only talking to me out of pity.”

On principle, she was very much opposed to violence too, but she had to admit she would have considered a minor rabbit curse at the very least in that particular case. Nevertheless, that piqued her curiosity.

“Aren't you and Mabel friends? Have you fought?”

The change of expression in Charlie's face was fascinating to witness, and as she decrypted it she intended to memorise it as a milestone in his growing up – he was 13 after all, almost 14 – and what his face said was that it was not a conversation he wanted to have with her.

“Yeah, we're friends,” he reluctantly grumbled after a while. “And that's about it.”

She had to admit she was surprised: she remembered distinctly the time when Charlie had met Mabel, months ago, and found in Emelius an understanding ear – after all she really wasn't the natural interlocutor for such a topic, and couldn't imagine the children coming to her for this. She would have thought the matter either solved and over with – how long could a youthful romance reasonably last? – or forgotten, Charlie's heart mended a long time ago. But no. They were “friends”. She was tempted to marvel at such persistence.

“I see,” she tried to keep a neutral composure, sensing this was very much the heart of the matter so to speak. Maybe Charlie's gloominess in the last few months wasn't due to the war alone.

“Pardon me for asking this, but have you made your intentions toward her clear?”

Good God, she certainly wasn't a natural at this. She sounded like a chaperone in a Victorian novel. But on the other hand she wasn't even sure she was supposed to encourage such behaviour in young people of that age – she could almost hear what her father would have to say about it.

“What I mean to say is,” she corrected herself, “have you told her how you felt?”

The boy was beginning to blush now, and she wouldn't have sworn she wasn't developing a bit of an uneasy flush herself, unprepared as she was for such a conversation.

“What's the point now? If she hasn't figured it out after all this time, there's not a chance of her truly liking me. I hate that stupid Barns, but he's right.”

“Well I suppose subtlety does have its appeal on such delicate subjects, but truly, at one point matters of the heart need to be set out in unambiguous words. If neither of you has any way to know what the other think, you could go on hoping for a long time, perhaps in vain but perhaps not,” she enunciated, trying to sound as professional as possible.

Charlie seemed to meditate on that stance for a while, leaving her to feel momentarily impressed with herself.

“But what if she doesn't want to speak to me any more afterwards?” The concern in his voice was palpable.

“Mabel is a reasonable girl, I don't see why she wouldn't. This is not your fault. And if this problem makes you angry enough that you respond in such a way to shameful provocation like this one, I dare say it needs to be addressed as soon as possible. The way you behaved is unacceptable, and it won't solve a thing.”

As Charlie's face darkened again, she added, wondering why she hadn't thought of this obvious escape any sooner:

“Have you talked to Mister Browne about this?”

It was only natural after all. He was the one who had given bakery lessons to Charlie in the first place, and surprisingly reasonable advice, from what she had caught by hovering not too far from the kitchen at that time.

But he only shot her a strange look, before saying:

“He's been kind of busy. I don't want to bother him with that.”

She wasn't sure she understood what was at stake here. Emelius was working on the rebuilding, but she knew for a fact he was always too glad to help the children whenever he could. As she was reflecting on this, another thing came back to her.

“Barns you said? Didn't that boy lose his father in the early months of the war? I think it was the first funeral we had here after the declaration.”

Charlie paled.

“Oh no. I had forgotten about that completely. He never talks about… But why would he call me an orphan when…?”

“Sometimes, people who are mean to you are also trying to be mean to themselves,” she sighed. “Sadly you've all been going through a lot, your comrades and you, and I know I already told you that, so don't think me an old rambling woman, but you're still at a difficult age. It's easy to blame the unease you feel on others. But please, never lose faith in yourself: you are a very capable, loving young man, and that is what matters. Whatever way Mabel sees you does not make you less worthy, nor anyone's insults.”

At this point she allowed herself to cover his hand with hers, to make sure her words landed properly.

“You're very brave, Charles Rawlins. I want you to remember that.”

He was so distrustful at first, so defiant, and ready to take over and stand for his siblings like he could, making plans only a child would make, fierce and innocent. She had told him so back then, he wouldn't listen, and she still meant it now: those were things she understood. Nobody's problem, yes. He looked up to her and said quietly, not meeting her eyes:

“I think you're very brave too, Aunt Eglantine.”

She shot the most emotional look to her knees before adding hurriedly:

“That being said, I'm still cutting your pocket money for this month, because I don't tolerate that kind of attitude under my roof. And you have to apologise to that boy – please tell me you didn't really break his teeth.”

“Nah,” Charlie said with renewed ferocity. “He's such a faker. I do expect he'll have a black eye out of this though… Right, I'll talk to him.”

He rose to his feet, not even trying to protest the punishment, and awkwardly hugged her from the side for a second before disappearing inside the house.

 

She stayed on the porch for a while longer, staring in the distance. After some time, Emelius's silhouette appeared in the ruins of the barn, his shirt's sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open from what she could see from there, the sun quite strong that day. She ought to find him working clothes, she reflected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is one of my favourite chapter. A bit sadistic perhaps but I love confused Eglantine, and the interactions with the children.  
> Clueless education is the best education. I mean, you would expect "fake it till you make it" to be really Emelius's motto, but in certain cases...  
> Also, once again: the irony.


	11. Of knowing flowers by their names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams, flowers. And in the background, an epiphany.

 

He dreamt, now. Before that he always had trouble remembering his dreams, although he had a vague sense of what they might have been about. While in the army, he did daydream a lot, to occupy himself, to deal with the longing, to cope. He never really dared do it in the cottage, for fear of ruining whatever balance they had achieved there.

But now, some of his dreams were more vivid than even his most convincing musings. Racier too. Some of them were about the war, of being called back, of being accused of treachery and desertion, or simply lost on a dark battlefield, during a bombing, alone and running in circle. But some… He was a gentleman, or rather he tried to be one, even if he lacked some of the upbringing and moral qualities. True, he wasn't a stranger to imagining her in fetching scene costumes – his witch of an assistant, but that was a very early fantasy. Now that he had seen her when she was just going out of the bath, pink skin and damp hair, walking past his door hurriedly, clutching her bathrobe, or getting sleepy at night on the couch, head lulling a bit to the side, toward his shoulder sometimes, or even smoking with carelessness, images had a more real tang than ever.

Surprisingly though, his most disturbing dreams were so because of their complete innocuousness. In one that he kept having, they were just walking side by side in a truly beautiful landscape, on a spring afternoon, hands occasionally brushing. At one point she turned toward him and asked:

“Have you locked the pantry's door before we left?”

There was something in her attitude, her soft tone and such a deep sense of… habit, he couldn't place. As he protested he did of course locked the door, she smiled fondly and said:

“I know you always forget.”

And as she nudged at him, he always woke up, a strange urge to cry embedded in his chest.

 

The children had jumped with joy at the idea of him rebuilding the dependencies, and they were eager to help, carrying bricks and enthusiastically mixing mortar as if it was lemon cake. The implication behind that activity seemed to be, for them, that he would stay. He wondered if they had at some point doubt it. As a matter of fact he could not think of a future for himself that was anything but the repetition of this day to day life. His mind just wouldn't jump over the inscrutable, unmentionable pit that encircled his every moves, his every words. For now, if only for now, he at least knew he was useful. It gave him something to justify his continuing presence at their side. That might always end, but how was simply inconceivable.

 

In the meantime, he did what he could. He left flowers on the kitchen's table, in enough of a disorder that they wouldn't be confused with actual bunches, wild flowers he picked up during his walks, blue columbines and purple orchids, orange wallflowers that invariably wilted more quickly than any florist's solid sprout, but he liked that about them – fragility. And they smelt of woods and fields, of something real, unlike those sterilized tulips people always offered – he would never get away with bought flowers anyway. So he always arranged them – to make them look accidental. Innocent enough. Which they in fact were, if you forgot the heavy scent that lingered in the living room at night from time to time, when they read together and the flowers were three or four days old… She never said a thing about them, but they usually reappeared in various vases all around the house.

 

On a particularly hot day, as he entered the kitchen in a bit of disarray, having worked outside all morning and feeling positively cooked, his working clothes creased, he found her lost in the contemplation of the old oak table. She had picked up most of the vivid musk mallows he had left there, and was staring at the remaining two or three, artistically scattered across a bunch of carrots like a peace offering. She wasn't moving, and when he gently touched her arm, she jumped out of her skin and nearly collided with him.

“Oh… I'm sorry I… I didn't hear you coming.”

To his surprise, he saw that she was even more flushed than he knew he must be, and her eyes, that were travelling over him haphazardly, a bit glassy. She looked feverish.

“Those need water,” he pointed at the flowers in her hand.

“Water?” she repeated, blinking, her eyes not leaving him.

“Let me...” Serving himself a large glass of water, he took several gulps from it before offering it to her as a vase. When she didn't react, he reached out to take the bunch, which made her jump again.

“Here, I'll just...” Reaching past her, he collected the other flowers from the table to put them all in the glass. She had finally moved to take it, and now they were both holding it awkwardly in silence. Getting more nervous by the minute, he asked in concern:

“Pardon me but, are you all right?”

She took a second too long to respond.

“Why yes. Yes of course.”

Then his fingers made contact with hers over the cool surface of the glass and she immediately let go, almost sending him off-balance. Ignoring it, he grabbed her hand again, fingers pressing the inside of her palm to confirm his suspicion.

“Have you worked in the garden today? You look like stayed even longer in the sun than I did.”

He pressed him hand to her forehead.

“You're burning up, Eglantine! You're certainly not all right, you should be in bed!”

“Bed?” If possible, she looked even more flustered. “What are you talking about? No, no, I'm perfectly… fine.”

Unwillingly, it seemed, she was leaning against his cool hand, her eyes closing. She sighed and he felt her stagger under his touch. He grabbed her arm before she would collapse and dragged her to the couch, where he had her lie down.

“Rest, don't move. I'm going to get you some water.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she managed, regaining a bit of her typical Price tone for a moment, “I haven't set foot outside, not with that weather.”

Her eyes were still closed, though, so he chose to ignore her, as he was trying to ignore his impulse to scold her like a child. He had trouble believing she even had the capacity to fall sick; to him she had always been some kind of invincible force that never yielded.

“In that case you must have caught something.”

As he walked back to the kitchen to get her a glass, he didn't notice the first one floating high in the air near the ceiling, the mallows suddenly all in full bloom.

 

He watched her with some concern as she drank, her cheeks still pink, if not pinker than before.

“Really, I don't know what came over me, I was just standing in the kitchen, thinking about making lunch, and...” she stopped mid-sentence with a frown. She looked so vulnerable that he lost his battle against himself and reached out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her temple, trying to make it look as if he was checking on her temperature again.

“Stay here, try to sleep. I'll bring you a blanket and if the fever isn't down by supper, I'll call the doctor.”

He was about to leave when she suddenly grabbed his arm – his sleeves were rolled up, of course his sleeves were rolled up, and her hand burnt on his forearm – a very authoritative grip, she had never touched him in this way before.

“Why are you bringing me flowers?”

She was looking straight at him, eyes wide open, gaze still distant, a bit dreamy, but her voice, if low, was determined.

He stared back, helplessly, his mind going blank. What sort of question was that? What could he possibly say that would be appropriate and wouldn't sound like he was, what, courting her? Was it what he was doing after all? It could have been. These days he couldn't answer two plus two, and it was just like him to unknowingly engage in an elaborated form of courtship by sheer inattention. At least he wasn't singing ballads to her any more.

“Just because I like them. They're beautiful.”

There, he sounded like a fool but at least that wasn't a lie, and not too compromising either. He wasn't certain she was in the capacity of evaluating his response with her usual sharpness anyway. But she wasn't letting go.

“Only for a day or two.”

What was she talking about? He was beginning to worry her fever was more serious than it seemed.

“You left. Twice.”

As dumbfound as he was, he couldn't help but think she sounded a bit desperate. Did she believe he was preparing for another desertion? He covered the hand that was clutching his arm with his own, trying to be comforting.

“Do you… do you want me to stop? Bringing them,” he asked, finding he too was sounding desperate, though he had no idea why that would be.

She smiled absent-mindedly.

“No, it's fine.”

Her gaze refocused on him suddenly, giving her following words a peculiar intonation, as if she was granting him something, some kind of permission.

“Everything is fine.”

He found himself unable to sustain her stare any longer. As he turned away, muttering that she should get some sleep, he heard her whisper:

“I wish you would tell me why.”

He tried not to intrude on her that afternoon, intercepting Carrie as she crossed the living room with her bow in hand.

“Sick? But we did my homework together this morning, she was just her usual self! Explained Pythagoras' theorem to me, even!”

 

When he touched her forehead again later that evening, he found the fever had apparently passed, and she opened lucid eyes on him, saying flatly, but confidently:

“Oh, it's you.”

“Yes,” he said helplessly. He had found he had been quite shaken by their previous exchange, without being able to put his finger on why. But on what was probably more than a simple impulse, he added:

“I'm not going anywhere, my dear.”

She blinked, and then scoffed, intending to stand up.

“If so, why are you letting me sleep through the day as if I were the duchess of Windsor? Such an example to the children...”

“I see that you are better,” he smirked. “Can I interest you in some supper?”

“Unless you intend to starve me, you can very much do. I'm famished. What time is it again?”

He watched with wonder as she trotted to the kitchen as if nothing of consequence had happened, and knelt down to pick up a glass full of splendid musk mallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another favourite (just saying, it's not like I'm self-satisfied over this story, trust me, but hell it's mine, I get to cherry-pick). It's the flowers I think, and magic getting all over the place. 
> 
> Title from, and very reluctantly, Prettybelle, "I met a man". The song is really good but please don't look up the musical. I'm serious, I wish I didn't know anything about it; it's more than awful, it's the stuff of nightmare. It's all you never wanted to read about, and a level of problematic that I can't even begin to describe. So stick to the song.


	12. Swimmingly

 

To the children's utter delight, they at last were able to go for that picnic by the sea they had been waiting for so long, the weather absolutely ideal. Emelius joked, Eglantine rolled her eyes, Paul ran around them all day crying it was just like Nabumboo, and they planned to go for a swim, except for Miss Price who sat very still on the chequered blanket, stating she would watch everyone's food and clothes.

“Oi, come on Aunty Eglantine! This will be fun! Remember how you danced under the sea that time! It was terrific!”

They had to explain to Paul the real sea felt very different from the magic one, the only he had encountered so far in his young life, and they couldn't help but laugh at his disappointment:

“So, the fishes won't talk if I swim down? That's just no fun!”

“ _And_ you'll actually get wet this time!” Carrie exclaimed. “It's the real deal. Come, I'll show you.”

As she proceeded to spray her unsuspecting brother, taking advantage of the small waves that went up to her knees, Emelius turned to their designated guardian, finding she was smiling fondly. At least he had managed to snatch her away from the blanket, vaguely pretending they had to monitor the inexperienced swimmers.

“Too afraid to swim in real water too, aren't we?” he teased. She had been better, he thought, since that strange feverish episode. More serene.

“Absolutely not. I was born by these cliffs, Mister Browne, I'll have you know I'm a perfectly apt swimmer.”

They were standing on the wet sand, the waves licking at their bare feet.

“I just don't particularly enjoy going for a swim when I have an audience.”

Miraculously, he managed not to blush at that – it wasn't what she meant anyway.

“Oh, is that so?”

He took a step toward her, making her back off in the water. She was wearing one of those summer dresses that were causing him so much trouble these days: light, simple, perfectly respectable, even a bit strict, and so damn _fitted_.

“I'm afraid it is.”

“Because I don't remember you shying away from an audience that day. In fact you were pretty much at ease, bobbing to and fro like a little seahorse.”

He advanced again, taking her hands as she raised them in protest.

“That is hardly a flattering comparison.”

“But we won, didn't we?”

They were in the water up their calves now, the hem of her dress beginning to dampen. Behind her he could see Charlie holding Paul as he tried to open his eyes under the surface, yelling it was way too salty.

He knew he was being silly, but it was simply too good to resist.

“We won the contest, and we never really celebrated.”

He let one of his hand sneakily glide to her waist, humming a familiar tune as he tentatively tried to engage her in a dance.

“I can hardly believe the nerves of you, Mister Browne,” she shook her head but complied, unable to hide her smile.

As they sway, trying not to stumble, the children stopped long enough in their battle to cheer at them.

“Do you know, it's actually much harder than it was down there,” she commented, breath a bit short as he made her spin.

“I have to confess at the time I was so surprised you actually followed through I didn't pay too much attention to the choreography. And it was just divine. If you ask me, you should make exceptions more often.”

She was opening her mouth to retort when a big wave washed over them by surprise, making them tumble directly into the sea. He fell over her and tried to avoid swallowing too much water as they rolled, struggling to sit. They coughed and coughed and, looking at each other, soaking wet, burst into laughter. He caught her as she was trying to regain her balance, his gaze lingering on the clinging fabric of her dress.

“About that swim, you were saying?”

She pushed him back into the water, earning an ovation from the children, who were already busy mocking them with all they could.

 

In the end, they all swam together, fully clothed in her case, her face keeping on an expression of light incredulity, as if she could not quite believe she was letting herself drift along in such a way.

As he laid on his back in the water, enjoying the sun and the lazy rhythm of the tide, he half-heard Charlie and Carrie muttering from afar:

“...look so happy, I don't see why...”

“...but remember last time! It's not a sure thing! And even two weeks ago...mending the sheets, and she just looked so sad!”

“...on the day he came back! I saw it! Almost! How long can...”

“...say that, considering… none of our business… don't understand it at all!”

He almost opened his eyes, but then the hushed conversation was replaced with sounds of Eglantine trying to teach Paul how to swim, so he just closed his lids again and let himself float in the current.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, but I hope some people will find the story for Christmas (I mean I don't count on it but one never knows what can rock the boat of iddle people during their Christmas break). I had planned for 20 chapters and all of them are written except for the two last, I'll try and post them as soon as possible.


	13. A Woman Alone (With Limited Wind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the vicar tries to intervene.

The next incident was purely the vicar's fault, and she would blame him for it to the end of time, for putting her through the mill in such a way, not to mention the dangers and temptations of her soul, or whatever grand words he was so fond of using at a dreadful hour on Sunday mornings.

He had come to visit, so smug and assiduous, clinging to her hand for too long, smiling too politely as he expressed his concerns for her and the children, that were always numerous since “we see you so rarely at church”.

But today he had a new topic to discuss, one he had always avoided before, and she distantly wondered why this only came up now, at this exact moment, when she was just… perfectly happy wasn't the right expression, but she was at least coming to terms with certain things. Almost. Emelius didn't look like he was going to vanish into thin air, Charlie had been suspiciously cheerful for the last few weeks, and the postman's wife, Mrs Stuart, had just told her the mayor was looking for someone to take charge of the old museum. It was all but abandoned since the war, leading up, it was said, to curious degradation on some of the artifacts. Apparently they were open to any suggestion, being rather embarrassed as to what to do with a bunch of old armours and all this space, when the village already lacked hands in the aftermath of the war. She was thinking about it. True, she had never really worked before, officially at least, not like that, but she had always been studying one thing or the other, trying to solve technical problems, and this could not be so different. There was a time when it would have been frowned upon in this conservative neighbourhood, since as a relatively wealthy woman she had a role to live up to, but the war had changed that. Everyone worked today. She would be damned if she wouldn't follow the trend.

 

As a matter of fact, Mister Jelk seemed very much to think she would indeed be damned, for about the same reasons she was feeling much more like herself lately:

“...and I caught Charles and Mabel Bigelow holding hands behind the bakery just last Friday, looking like they were about to behave in the most improper fashion! They didn't even acknowledge my admonishments! Really, Miss Price, I do worry about that boy and his atheist tendencies. If you would just send him to me for Sunday school...”

“My dear Mister Jelk, I'm afraid that is impossible,” she said with all the good grace she was capable of. “On Sundays Charlie is helping old Mrs Calloway with her garden, and sometimes making deliveries for the Bigelows. Besides, I need him for Paul's homework occasionally, and there's also so much to do with the barn...”

They had actually been living a pretty slow life since the end of the war, the restriction on food having eased down a bit, but some idleness was in fact needed, and she suspected the children had never really experienced it before, so she decided they could all indulge for the time being. Emelius really had an awful influence on her.

“...see, that's exactly why I came to see you. I know you're a trusting woman, Miss Price, and you have a truly good heart, but this man,” he pronounced the word as if it was four-lettered, which she found enormously amusing, “have no reason to stay in your house for so long. Certainly, it is very… charitable of you, accommodating a former soldier, but nobody really knows him, and since he's been here, strange… occurrences have been observed. I'm sure you remember the sudden “tempest” that had you clothes be thrown out of the window two years ago. Now people are talking of strange sparkles, even flying objects! Can you imagine! And I'm not mentioning half of what I've heard, you know how those things can be, but he's more often seen at the pub than at mass, he's always around you, and I've learned...”

And there he bent toward her as if to add weight to the horrific tale he probably was about to tell her, “that he and Mrs Hobday were discussing _love potions_ the other day at the shop.”

At that point she felt like her two natural options were either rolling her eyes or bursting into laughter, and preventing herself from doing either was quite difficult considering Mr Jelk's level of indignation. God, the whole affair was turning out to be even more ridiculous than she had feared. She mentally cursed Emelius for not being able to keep his devilish tongue to himself over such silly matters, and to Mrs Hobday of all people.

“Now, Miss Price, pardon me for saying so, but you are, indisputably, an unmarried woman.”

“So I keep hearing, reverent, although some did in fact tried to dispute it. Being a woman of science, I had to prove them wrong: the extremities one has to go to be officially recognized an authentic spinster, I've never.”

Usually she was well-guarded with people, especially people like Mr Jelk, but she slipped more easily those days. And now she was having way too much fun over something that could actually be quite harmful for them all. But really, she couldn't believe the degree of foolishness she was dealing with. He frowned:

“This is very serious business, Miss Price, very serious indeed. This man has no situation that I know of, he's been living here for a long time now, and that talk of love potion...”

Solemnly, he took both her hands in his – she tried not to snatch them away immediately – and changed his severe tone into something more softly patronising, which was probably his idea of seducing:

“Miss Price… Eglantine, I know you for a reasonable woman, a respectable woman, and I would hate for you to place your affection in the wrong place, trusting that manipulative, probably corrupted man, when there are others who respect you and fear God, and would help you out of your solitude. Think about what you late father would have wanted...”

She finally managed to wrest her hands from his.

“You barely knew my father, reverent. What he would have wanted probably involved being able to ride a horse bareback and shooting small animals. Mr Browne is, may I remind you, one of our glorious fighters, and a very respectable man, as much as you are, I'm sure, a rational one. You cannot possibly believe in love potions and magic sparkles or I don't know what other nonsense. This is a small community, I'm well-aware of it, and I hear your concerns, but I'm not sure it is part of your attributions to come into my house and lecture me about the people I choose to accommodate in exchange for manual work.”

She inwardly cringed at her choice of words. It wasn't fair, having to pretend she was employing Emelius, that he was at her service. Wasn't she allowed to have friends, for God's sake? That was a done thing, wasn't it, and if he had been a baron, and her a dowager, he could have spent all his time there, pretending the season was much more agreeable in the country, sleeping in her bed the whole time and no one would have raised an eyebrow.

Her anger must have shown, because the vicar backed off a bit.

“Of course, of course. But promise me to give it some thought. If you would be so kind as to join me on Monday evening, we could discuss it further, at my...”

She interrupted, not bothering to sound too polite this time, her patience running thin:

“I'm deeply sorry, but I have other obligations, really my schedule is quite full these days, what with the final part of the adoption process that is taking so long, and the whole question of the museum, and this summer course at Oxford I might attend, I'm sure you understand, thank you for your concerns, Mr Jelk, it's always a pleasure, have a safe walk home!”

 

The door closed on him before he could begin another sentence. Couldn't she be left alone? She had a hard enough time dealing with whatever was happening to her magic, and with the guilt, the exhilaration and despair, and the looks Emelius gave her sometimes. With all the flowers, too. No wonder the vicar had eyed the room with disapprobation: today it was literally filled with decaying bunches, at least six or seven different shades of marigolds, sprouting out every vase she could find. She had finally figured out why they always seemed to wither so quickly in the house. Every time he was near her, they would all open up completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been curious about those cut scenes from the movie, where we supposedly saw Mr Jelk's attempts at seducing Eglantine. I never found them anywhere, it's probably lost in some DVD extras.   
> Title from Sweeney Todd, "The Worst Pies in London", probably reflect Mr Jelk's point of view.


	14. Liaisons (what happened to them)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we fool around a tad.

 

It had been quite some time since Eglantine had come to him with a decided stride, a reproachful expression on her face, and so when she approached him that afternoon as he was peeling turnips for the evening soup, he got slightly nostalgic for a minute.

“I'm afraid you've managed to make yourself so unpopular with the vicar we are going to have to attend mass on Sunday. I hope you're satisfied.”

It was in fact hard to say if she was being cheeky or if she was genuinely mad at him. Probably both in that case.

“And what have I done to offend the good Mr Jelk? I made myself so scarce I'm even surprised he remembered my existence.”

Then he realised what she had just said:

“I'm sorry, _we_ 're going to the mass? As in “you and I”?”

“As in everyone, the whole family, and be assured I'll let the children know you're the one to blame for it. You know how they hate it.”

He did what he could not to smile: if the household held one thing in common, it was their strong dislike for rising early. “Family”, now… He leaned on the table, raising his chin to her in good humour.

“Is Cosmic Creeper supposed to go too, or is he at liberty to opt out?”

“Oh, don't be silly,” she frowned. “I'm quite annoyed at this. Apparently, people are reporting that you go around speaking of love potions and such aberrations. To Mrs Hobday! Tell me you haven't been as careless as that.”

Now he felt like he might blush a bit. That conversation had been an obvious mistake, but he was in such high spirits at the time: the children were beginning to call him “Uncle Emelius” when Eglantine wasn't around, she actually kissed him goodnight now (chastely and on the cheek but still), and the barn was coming out so well they were adding an expansion. When Mrs Hobday had complained about her useless sons who were incapable of keeping a girl long enough to propose, lamenting she would never see the pink face of a grandchild, he had naturally embarked in one of his old sales-talks, joking about procuring her with a filter of his making. That had led to the old lessons he used to give to Miss Price, then to Miss Price herself, and in the end he had very nearly avoided another push in the matrimonial direction after praising Eglantine for ten full minutes. He was an idiot.

“I haven't! I swear, it was only in jest!”

Her eyes were almost purple in this light, and he knew from experience it meant trouble, one way or another.

“The problem with you is that everything is always in jest,” she said in an undefinable tone.

“Not everything,” he answered before he could think, taking a step toward her. “For example I fully meant it when I said you should make exceptions more often.”

As he approached her, she flinched, trying to ignore his smug air. He was feeling way too flirtatious these days, but with a kiss every night, one should expect even a would-be gentleman to turn so.

“What does that even mean? Oh don't change the subject. They think _you're_ the magician now!”

“Well I am, aren't I? If not, would I be able to do this?”

He bent toward her, his face very close, and sustaining her surprised gaze to make sure she was looking at him in the eyes, he used the distraction to pretend to pull a carnation that originally came from his buttonhole from behind her ear, lightly brushing it against her hair. As he presented her with it, placing the flower in front of her mouth, she stood still, her attention seeming to wander off, as she kept looking at his face. After a moment or two she snapped out of it with a frown.

“This is just like you, Emelius: I had something perfectly serious in mind and now, with all your fluttering about, I can't for the life of me remember what it was.”

From time to time, although rarely, his first name escaped her, and it was always on thrilling occasions. He had to admit seeing her suddenly trouble had troubled him a bit in return. There was an unmistakable flush creeping on the upper part of her chest, something he could observe because of the delightfully low neckline of her dress of the day. He swallowed with some difficulty.

“You were saying, I believe, that well-meaning Mr Jelk was convinced I was feeding you love potion to take advantage of your charming person.”

“Exactly. Wait. That's not...”

“You needn't, my dear, the whole affair is perfectly transparent to me. And I'll suffer through these vile accusations with a giddy heart, even if they are indeed a bit of an insult to your clear-sightedness.”

“But when we first met, you did actually sell what you called love potions, among other concoctions, am I correct?”

“Oh absolutely, and here I was, thinking you weren't paying any attention to my wonderful street show. But I would never dare offering you one: I know you're not so partial to infused grass in coloured water. Now if we were talking enchanted peppermint, I might have taken a chance...”

He was back in her proximity without even knowing how. In response she looked up defiantly, which allowed him to see she was doing all she could to ignore his festive mood.

“Good Lord, you're going to get us excommunicated even faster than I thought.”

“I somehow doubt that; you won't even need a filter with that obnoxious clergyman. He's so obviously taken with you.”

Suddenly ill-at-ease with the turn of the conversation, she took a step back, shaking her head.

“Nonsense, he just likes pestering me because I don't go to church quite as often as I should, and he always talks about wanting to buy me the orchard, should I be willing to sell it someday.”

“I'm certain he wants to buy your orchard all right, and all the apples too. He's not especially discrete in the way he looks at you. And one day, it was before I enrolled, though we barely spoke to each other, he took me aside on my way to the village and told me – what were his words again, ah, yes, told me that if I dared try to court you, he would make sure my soul ended up in a terrible place. Or something of the sort. I was rather taken aback, I don't recall it very well.”

Finally telling her this anecdote bore fruit; he had never seen her so flabbergasted. And when her anger wasn't directed at him, he always found it quite enthralling.

“He did _what_? I can't believe...and a man of God indeed! The impudence! To think… oh and did you say nothing?”

“Well I believe I told him something along the lines of not feeling so bold as to try and court a woman as remarkable as you, but that I nonetheless reserved my right to just stand there, make myself agreeable, avoid pestering you about God and such things, and see if anything came naturally.”

It took her a few seconds, in her rage, to acknowledge what he had said. Her first defence was to snort, ignoring the way he was towering about her now.

“You did no such thing!”

Then, the shadow of a doubt crossed her face, which was not completely unreasonable given his own personal history. She reconsidered, eyes wide.

“Did you now?”

“I'm afraid I did. I'm a man of too many words, but sometimes I speak my mind too. So I guess I lied earlier: I wouldn't be surprised if he held a bit of resentment against me.”

Suddenly, perhaps finally noticing he was standing too close to her given the circumstances, she grew more quiet, speaking in a small voice as if confiding in him, sharing a secret too scandalous to be publicised.

“Even you must realise how improper that sounds.”

Another fascinating property of that particular dress was that it allowed him to see the effects of the summery sun on the skin of her shoulders, now graced with splashes of golden freckles, barely visibly against her pale complexion but becoming apparent as the blush settled in. He tried to keep his gaze higher up, but she wasn't looking at him in the eyes either.

“Oh yes. Yes it is. Dreadful.”

His voice came out as somewhat unfocused.

One of them must have leaned closer – he wasn't sure who. But the result was that he could now count her eyelashes, in addition to her freckles. His breath got stuck in his throat as she finally looked up.

“Improper and rather presumptuous, I would say.”

He felt dizzy, especially because her voice hadn't the intonation one would expect to hear with such a sentence.

“Yet you don't seem too shocked.”

He wanted to touch her, to raise a hand to her cheek, another to her waist and just settle there for life – his thoughts were getting rather loud. He wanted to kiss her freckles one by one and call it a day. And he was beginning to wonder if – presumptuous, she had said – but if – her head was tilting slightly – if…

“Well, as I recall, you were the one to advocate for exceptions.”

With that, unexpectedly, she took a step back, putting an abrupt end to their game by patting him on the shoulder in a business-like manner:

“In any case, be ready on Sunday at seven sharp, for we have to restore our image even more than I expected. Or maybe we should arrive separately? Oh I don't know – but I don't nearly trust your capacity to get into a church by yourself, so I guess this will be a joint party.”

And she was smiling. Hell, she was even smiling devilishly – what had just happened? He was… he struggled to get some sort of a grip on himself, anything to collect his wits, dumbfounded and defenceless in front of her as she was… poking fun at him? The blush was still there, creeping on her neck, plain as day, she had been troubled then, she had been angry but…

“And wear something presentable. If the whole village has to believe you have me under your spell, I would at least have you shine, if only to pamper my ego.”

That was exactly what she was doing, wasn't she? Turning his own tricks on him, pulling the carpet from under his silly boots. And that was…

“Um, well, won't that, won't that make our problem even worse? If we come in together, surely, that Jelk will certainly assume he's right in his…accusations.”

“In that case I suppose he'll have to acknowledge we at least are having a very moral and Christian affair.”

And then she _winked_ at him.

That was…

“Eglantine...”

“First names now? Please don't make it worse.”

That was the most aroused he's been in his entire life. Not partially because he had absolutely no idea where this was coming from – but something told him, far and faint beyond the clouds of excitement that obscured his judgement, that he also had it coming. And it was the way she was obviously taking upon herself to lead him on, on top of her own emotions and additionally to them, that he found the most fascinating. Although he probably should have wondered why he was suddenly so perceptive of that one device when he usually had so much trouble reading her, and why the form of fragility that perspired under the layers of her act moved him in such a way. But that was it to him, and there was no real need to elaborate – she could do anything to him. Everything. He loved her. Everything was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember if I said that earlier, but English is not my first language, and I expect there will be some mistakes and oddities in here. Don't hesitate to point them out - I try but I'm really not bilingual.  
> Title from A Little Night Music, "Liaisons", hilarious one and it's another Sondheim so you know it's a hit.  
> Did you know I love writing banter? Well, you know now. I'm having such fun imagining what the whole village might be saying about all this (I suppose they're not quite used to a good slow-burn).


	15. Sins of the flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go to mass and behave very morally.

 

The dawn was very white on Pepperinge Eye during summer, and as a result they all looked like corpses in different states of decay under the young morning sun, walking through the streets like an army of the dead, gloomy and eyes shut tight.

Taking everyone out of bed, including herself, had been a very trying task, but she was somehow glad that, half-sleeping on her feet as she already was, she hadn't too much energy to reflect on the doubtful path that had led her there, from Mr Jelk's misplaced – was it – jealousy, to Emelius's overconfident – was it – stance.

But no, she was getting this all wrong, wasn't she? Anyway she couldn't think straight – and she would have plenty of time, during mass, to dwell on whatever topic she may wish to consider – while still being able to wave at every bigoted, gossipy woman in the assistance with a smile and a meditative air. Her only real concern was that the children would not snore too loudly.

Emelius had made a real effort, but to the trained eye (and some of those women could have detected a fault in the folding of a pocket handkerchief from their very grave), he retained some of that mismatched look he always had about him, and that she found so oddly sweet.

Everyone was so busy trying not to walk into the wall of the church rather than through the door they didn't even question if they should go in together. As she ushered the children in front of her and tried to direct them to a row where they wouldn't be seating too close to anyone of influence, her eye was caught from the corner by the state of disarray of Emelius' tie. It was menacing to undo completely, having been, she suspected, put on in a rush a minute before leaving the cottage – she had seen him with one slow eye, trying not to strangle himself while drinking his tea without using his hands. Sometimes she wondered how her life had come to that point in such a short span of time.

Regardless, what she really didn't wish for was for him to appear in the eyes of good Pepperingians as if they had just been engaged in unmentionable activities on their way to the house of God – she knew how those minds worked. She had taken such good care of making herself up in a way that was so strict and old-fashioned that no one in their right mind would set eyes on her and believe, even briefly, in such things as love potions.

Emelius did not look so much like a magician any more, since she had purloined his customary flower from his buttonhole earlier, taking unfair advantage of the fact he was in no state to resist her, pretending to check the creases of his shirt, letting her hand wander a bit, watching him colour – and snatching the incriminating carnation without him even noticing. It had taken him a good half an hour, and then they were already on the road, to look down on his jacket and then up to her in clueless indignation. She had only raised her eyebrows – she would be sorry in another life. One did not wear carnations in a church, except if one wished to bring unfortunate rimes to ill-disposed minds.

And now the tie, that just wouldn't do. She waved the children to go and sit in a discrete row in the back of the assembly and, with a talent that surprised even herself, snatched him and pulled him behind a massive pillar with such vivacity no one in the tired community would have had time to notice. The unwanted consequence of that efficiency was that he was pushed against the stone with a little too much enthusiasm, something that, for reasons known to her body alone, achieved to fully wake her up. He looked completely lost, but she didn't have time and set to work immediately.

“Can't you tie a knot? Wasn't that one of your street tricks,” she muttered in vague justification.

Her fingers were very cold against his throat, she noted; it was early after all, and she hadn't warmed up before entering the freezing building. As the tip of her index inadvertently glided under his collar for a second, she tried very hard not to think about where her hands had been, on the train platform that day when he left, or about his eyes that were glued to her face as she focused solely on the reluctant fabric, conjuring deeply buried skills – why her father had thought of first importance to teach her how to tie a tie, she would never understand, but that wasn't an activity she had had many occasions to undertake before. If only he wouldn't – what was that against her hair?

She looked up very deliberately, mouthing: “Where is your pin?”, but found only dark eyes boring down on her, and as he took a hurried breath the space between her fingers and his skin disappeared again.

“What are you _doing_?” she whispered quickly as she felt his jacket, desperately looking for a pin.

“What are _you_ doing?” he whispered back, hoarsely, as she secured the needle on one of the lapels. She held it between her teeth for a second, trying to fix the last uncooperative inches of silk – still it was silk, that was something – but as she was about to plant it in the knot, she felt – a ghosting touch, just below her hair, against her neck, light as a feather, and she shouldn't have been able to feel it but…

She pricked herself.

They both stared as a single drop of blood bloomed on the tip of her index like a shameful scarlet letter, as if they both felt how improper, how almost sinful it was to draw blood like this in a church, and very mechanically, in the blink of an eye and more as a reflex than anything else, Emelius brought it to his lips.

The church wasn't cold any more.

There he was, with the face of someone who was just trying to help, sucking on the blood of her finger.

For a few, slow seconds she believed, truly believed she was going to faint.

The moment was very still, silent, almost unreal and she felt… She was seeing it all from afar, her staring at him, wide-eyed, terrified, while he held her hand with a purely honest expression, maybe even a bit of concern, and tiredness, oh yes, tiredness, and as she blinked the whole assembly rose as one, banks creaking everywhere around. The sound tore her from her trance, sending her back behind that pillar which suddenly didn't seem so large. She wrested her finger from him and all but ran to the choir, managing to reach the children without stumbling over her own feet. As far away voices recited the Gloria, she kept looking straight ahead, unable to see anything, even Mr Jelk who was taking his place in the pulpit. She wasn't even conscious enough to congratulate herself for having given the children a sufficient religious education, which meant they broadly knew when to stand up, when to sit down, and when to move their lips.

From movements of air and echoes of steps on stone to a rhythm she knew instinctively, she could tell he had followed through, choosing a different row. She couldn't turn around, and it had only been a few seconds, but she knew, the image engraved in her retina, she knew what he looked like now, she had seen – a minuscule, invisible speck of blood – her blood – on his bottom lip.

There probably was a million things she should have been thinking about – looking dignified, waving, pretending to listen to Mr Jelk with passion but not too much passion, monitoring the children whose heads were lolling more and more, wondering if anyone may have seen… But she stood there, with a blank look, still, letting her finger bleed on her skirt throughout the whole mass, wondering if she should erase that spot from his lips and if so if she should use her handkerchief or just her thumb, brushing… Paul tugged at her sleeve to make her sit down again.

In the end, the children fell asleep like dominoes after forty minutes, she only managed vague politeness with whoever attempted small talk with her while Emelius shook hands with, its seemed, half the assembly, and when Mr Jelk finally caught her near the door, she just nodded at everything he said, not hearing a word, deafened by the sound of her own pulse. She had to get out of this place or she would burst, or – God, she had to get out before her magic blew anything away and brought a new miracle to the Christian canon.

But of course, as she purposefully strode out of the building, dragging the children along, Paul cried, and loudly:

“But Aunt Eglantine, we have to wait for Mister Browne!”

He got so opinionated about it that she had to comply, if only to avoid yet another scandal. When he finally joined them, having made his goodbyes, she didn't look at him.

O nce home, she heard herself say, defeated:

“I think we can all go back to bed, now.”

She felt him turn his head; he was looking at her, and she refused to – he was looking at her in a way that – he still had blood on his lips, a mere spot but it was all she saw, as if it was pulsating in the light, the red stain and his eyes –

“You've got something on your mouth,” she said in a dead voice, and walked straight past him up to the stairs, to her room, to her bed, at which point she probably lost consciousness.

 

She dreamt of making love to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a slow-burn, I think we're burning rather bright, here. It's still rated T anyway, so read on kiddos.   
> The syntax is this one is pretty convoluted, which doesn't make much sense for sleepy people but my writing sometimes works in mysterious ways. And this chapter contains some of my most used-up themes, so...
> 
> Title from "A Little Priest", but at that point it could be from anywhere.


	16. Not while I'm around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we love Carrie, and cry.

He didn't see much of her for the two weeks that followed. Every time he set foot in a room, she seemed to remember something terribly urgent she had to attend to somewhere else, be it laundry, business in the village or Cosmic Creepers's dinner.

At first he thought that maybe it was just as well – he had been pretty shaken up by their last interactions, and needed to clear his head, but would never have taken upon himself to avoid her – he was either too much of a coward or too much in love, he couldn't make up his mind. But after a few days, emotions sorted out – and it had never been such a mystery to him, what he craved, although he was indeed surprised at how bold he had become, presumptuous, she was right.

Acting on it had never been part of his plan – as a general rule he always made sure not to act on anything if it could be avoided. The war had been a notable exception, but then wasn't it all part of a long chain of disappearing handkerchiefs he kept pulling out of his sleeve, the war and the cottage and her eyes and the bed and the children and the barn? He used to have no strings attached, not one, his all life packed in a suitcase, and sweet girls made him favours occasionally, just because he was so amusing, but he would never ask of any of them to do more than a few stops on his tour because that did feel like presumptuousness, claiming someone's life in such a cheap fashion. None of them had looked like a respectable, passionate, middle-aged witch, swimming in the sea in her summer dress.

The result of all this was, much to his dismay, that after a few days of this treatment he was finding he missed her terribly. He didn't quite know what to do with that feeling, or with himself for that matter, the barn almost finished and looking wonderful if a bit askew.

 

He was taking a break, inspecting the foundations and the extra room they had added, when he found Carrie there, sitting on a pile of sandbags he still had to take away, looking at the rough wall.

“What are you doing there on your own, young lady? It's so nice outside.”

She only raised half a shoulder, not looking up.

“Oh, just thinkin'. Sometimes I come here to do that.”

He frowned. Not that there was anything wrong with a good old thinking – God knew it was a habit that had grown on him too lately – but Carrie had always been the most perceptive and open of the three children. She usually wore her emotions on her sleeve, and her face currently offered a very complex picture.

They had talked about this with Eglantine: Carrie… had, it appeared, both sense and sensibility, which led her to understand subsurface adult struggles and reactions uncannily well.

“She is brilliant,” Eglantine had said, discretely beaming with pride. “I was surprised to see her so determined during the war, stony-faced even at times, but one night – and you know how time passed ever so slowly then – she just brought me my peppermint and looked up very seriously, she said “Don't you worry so much about us. You don't have to pretend all of the time, Charlie and Paul will also feel better I guess if we admit from time to time how bad this is and how we hate it.” And then she hugged me and left! It is a bit unnerving you know, suddenly feeling transparent to an eleven-years old. And don't get me wrong,” she added seriously, “I've always excelled at keeping a facade.”

He certainly never doubted that. But that face, on that particular child, worried him.

“Can I ask what sort of thinking?” he said, sitting down by her side on the pile of bags. In truth he knew why they were still there despite the mortar being long done: he had used them occasionally for the same purpose as Carrie's. She met his eyes briefly before turning away, as if ashamed.

“I was thinkin' about my father.”

“Oh.”

Oh, indeed. That was a subject they very rarely broached, for the children generally avoided it. They weren't even certain, him and Eglantine, how their parents had died.

“Was he a carpenter?” he asked, desperate for a question that wouldn't be too forward, and seeking inspiration in his surroundings.

“No, but the room here looked very much like the one where we lived, in London.”

That wasn't, by any standard, a big room, and he really hoped she didn't mean the whole family lived in there, but that wasn't unlikely – he himself had known such rooms.

“My father, he didn't really play… I mean he was often tired, but sometimes… he would make those puppets for us, out of tins, having them walk and dance around with string, and Mum was so mad because she said the neighbours would yell or call the Bobbies. We had no dolls, but I didn't care, I loved those tin can men. Paul doesn't really remember, he was so little, and Charlie is always away now...”

Not an unfair statement: Charlie was, in fact, more often found at the bakery, or gallivanting around the village, too old to play with his siblings.

“Thing is,” Carrie continued, her voice becoming more and more unsure, “thing is, we came here, and Aunt Eglantine was so nice to us. I mean after a few days. And you were so nice to us. And… Charlie told me she wanted me to go to college someday, because of my marks and all, like those posh ladies with petticoats who just sit in their parlours and reflect and write novels. And she knows so much about everything: she showed me her books about plants and birds and trees and explained and sometimes, now, sometimes… It happens, I recognise one or the other. And magic! I want to understand that so badly. I used to want to be a beautiful, rich lady when I grow up, marry a count or something, but I see how stupid and childish that is, because those things are just so much more interesting. But… if I… if we had stayed with our parents, I know they wouldn't have wanted me to go to college. I love school, but they were so eager for me to finish it. And they sure were proud but, you know, it was like that. My father didn't always play.”

She had, at some point of her speech, rested her head on his shoulder, and he was finding himself very unprepared for all this. Carrie was the one to pull them into hugs and that sort of things – he had gotten used to it very quickly, but Eglantine still looked a bit stiff. She was more than 12 now, but didn't seem to be the kind of person who would stop it at a certain age, and he found that strangely brave.

“Looking at this room, it reminds me of how it used to be – I'm so afraid I will forget, because everything here is so easy… But it feels sort of...”

She looked at him from below, guiltily.

“...wrong. I shouldn't say that,” she immediately put her hand over her mouth, like she had just cursed. There was a strong unease growing inside him, as he watched her turn red and noticed the sudden fear in her eyes, because she thought…

“I love it here,” she said like she had to defend herself. “I love Aunt Eglantine, and I love you. It's just… all those things we have now, all those things we can do… It's because our parents died. And I...”

Tears filled up her eyes, menacing to be shed, as he began to panic.

“Sometimes I would… I miss those tin can men. And I feel like that's what I should have got. There shouldn't be… a reward, when… I just miss them. I wish… I don't know.”

Her head nudged against his shoulder and he suddenly worried he would cry too. There really was nothing relevant he could say at that point, could he? No, no, he shouldn't be a coward then, it was just too important even for old, fearful Emelius Browne to duck, when he knew Eglantine would probably have an even harder time saying the words: he knew her, and the way she sometimes mentioned her own father. He stroked Carrie's hair to give himself courage, which seemed to finally overcome her restrain, as he felt her head beginning to shake.

“Sweetheart, we know we are not replacing anyone.”

For a second he had to pause, fascinated by his spontaneous use of “we”, and the picture it painted.

“Two years ago, I had no roof over my head, and my latest assistant had slapped the door in my face because I couldn't quite manage the disappearing act we were supposed to do together. And Miss Price, well she had Cosmic Creepers, but you'll admit he's not always the best of company. We're ever so grateful to have met you – nobody won any prize, it's just the way life sometimes goes, and it's nobody's fault, but we do what we can for each other, you see? I'm sure that's what your parents did too, in their own different circumstances. Parents do their best according to their means. I'm told there are widely different ways to care for someone, and to each his own, right? Doesn't mean it's better. Doesn't mean you won't miss one when you have another.”

When had he begun to engage in such conversations? He was one to run for the door in such cases but… not any more, apparently. Now that he thought about it, the shift had taken place quite some time ago, and he was only noticing. When Eglantine had come to him in that foggy London alley, he had tried to escape, and was only held back by three obstinate children hanging to his clothes, and one very efficient spell. After that he had helped her to find the book, but through the hope she would make business with him (even if his real intentions were probably as dubious as they were today). But then, on Nabumboo, after their dance, he was a different man: one who spontaneously threw himself in the den of a lion, under the roofs of extraordinarily bad-mannered rhinos, and who stole artefacts he had no personal use for. By George, he could hardly believe it himself, but he had actually helped in some minor way. He had… changed. He had changed! That was…

Carrie's muffled sob tore him from his self-absorbed epiphany. Maybe the change wasn't that ground-breaking after all. The upset girl nestled against his side.

“I'm so...happy and so...sad,” she hiccuped.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he could only say, hugging her and rocking her softly, like a very small child. He had never held a baby before, but he thought the feeling might have been close to this one, this strange, stretching pull in his chest, maybe, the touch so grounding: holding your child at night, whispering nonsensical lullabies, experiencing the weight.

And he knew there was so much more to say about this. You certainly couldn't solve such an issue, not even grasp it properly. Their parents had died and they got to go to college, or not, but they had the choice. What sort of sense did that make? He tried. He wasn't good at it, but he tried, with a wavering voice that at least testified of his lack of authority in all this:

“You give me the best hugs in the county, and Charlie only just shakes my hand when he's jumping with joy, and yet I love you both all the same, because I know your ways, you understand?”

She nodded against his jacket, and he felt relieved.

“All this amounting perhaps to the fact that...”

Emelius old fool, you are at it again. Be simple.

“...it's all right to talk about them.”

Another nod, and she disentangled herself from him, to look at the wall again. Sniffing, as she straightened up in a way that weirdly evoked Eglantine to his mind, she explained in a tone that tried to be composed:

“We would pick up chalk on the street to draw on the walls, and it made Mum go crazy.”

 

They talked for a long while, that afternoon, both sitting askew on their bag of sand.

*

To speak the truth, he wanted to run to Eglantine immediately, take her hands in his and say he had changed, he had really changed, look, please, look. But when he went to find her that evening, it was only for Carrie. He tried to be reassuring as he walked in the living-room where she was reading by the fire, legs stretched on the couch like he had never seen her do before. Tearing his eyes away, he held out his hands when she immediately made it to stand up, opening her mouth to a predictable excuse.

“No, no please, don't run away. I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but I really need to talk to you about something of importance.”

And wasn't that fear, widening her eyes suddenly, or anxious anticipation of something he had certainly not come to tell…

“It's about Carrie.”

The fear receded, replaced by true concern, and he took no time to wonder about it, to question it or say, maybe, “shouldn't we go back to mass?”

As he explained, he saw her growing more and more confused.

“I don't understand. Is she worried she's not saddened enough by this?”

That actually gave him pause, and he shot her what might have been a telling look, because she averted her eyes.

“No, I would rather say it's everything at once, the good and the bad, the extremely bad even, one big ball of messy emotions, if I may.”

“All at once? Good Lord, that sounds absolutely unbearable. Poor child. Did you say something to her?”

He told her. And somehow, though he had no idea how he managed, but by the fire her eyes always were so mellow, bringing him confidence, ease, he conveyed some of that stretching sensation he had experienced, the weight, the weight of Carrie's head on his shoulder.

“And it's uncanny, since she understands so much for her age but she seemed so small and I… it makes no sense, there's you of course, but all I could think was “I'm all she has”. I've never felt more responsible in my life.”

She never approached him these days, but she had gotten closer as he spoke, so much that he felt he should perhaps step back, unsure, her sad smile stopping him, her vibrant expression. Her hand came to rest on his arm just the way it used to, long ago, when he had just come back from his first attempt at escaping her.

“I know,” she said, her voice breaking a little. They looked at each other for a moment.

“Do you know what the worst part was?” she finally asked in a low, uncertain tone. “I never expected to feel that way. I thought I couldn't, that it was not for me, that I was too much of a solitary soul, too focused, too busy, too cold really, so never mind that, _never_ mind that… Isn't it awful?”

“Not at all. I mean I certainly never expected to… ever. When you're on the road you never think of children.”

“But you're...” she began.

“What, a man? What difference does it make? I'm sorry my dear, but you're a witch: technically, you're supposed to _eat_ them.”

She laughed quietly, her hand coming up to his other arm, and she rested her forehead on his chest for a second, closing her eyes, before looking up at him in earnest:

“My God, what are we going to do?”

He chuckled calmly, even though his heart ached in unknown places, in a way that was both excruciating and warm, almost comfortable, exactly like – he recognised it now – his recurring dream, in the flower fields.

“Don't ask me, I can't even perform one successful trick.”

She considered him with such a tender expression that he felt himself grow weak.

“Well I just think you're...”

Her face froze mid-sentence and he could have cursed, because it was clear she was going to say something that matched that expression, and Lord did he want to hear what he was, what she thought he was when she looked at him like that. But apparently she had been struck by a more important idea.

“Did you say she told you she would like to know more about magic?”

He nodded, a bit dumbfounded.

“That… Oh I've been selfish again, do you remember the museum? I mean of course you do. I've got to think about this. This could be… yes, this could help. Change things on a reasonable scale, the village be damned. She's brilliant, and so are you. I need… oh bother, I need to write this down, I'm sorry.”

Before he could ask what she was apologising for, she leaned toward him and kissed his cheek.

“Goodnight Emelius.”

He received the words on his skin, since she hadn't moved away, allowing him to see her linger, and hesitate. Was he being presumptuous again? But no, there was no other way to call that unclear angle of the neck, that unsteady light and the slight irregularity in her breath. Like a bandit in ambush, he stood absolutely still. With a degree of resignation, her eyelids shut, and she finally moved away, repeating:

“Goodnight,” followed by what sounded like a soft sigh.

Strangely, before distancing herself completely, she brushed along the back of his hand with two fingers, not too fast, dragging them all the way down, until she reached the tip of his fingers, shooting him one last look. As he watched her leave the room, he had to fight a small tremor in his arm, a sort of numbness that was progressively gaining ground. He blinked to the empty space. Funny, how words imposed themselves to him tonight. This had really felt like a caress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I do love this one, just because of Carrie, you know. I regret not including the children more in this, but I tried for each one to get a chapter. I think I may have been a bit overenthusiastic and killed off their parents when I'm not even sure how dead they're supposed to be in canon (quite dead? In the books at least?)  
> And so Emelius discovers he does have some depths after all. I' not crying, you're crying.
> 
> Title from Sweeney Todd, of course.


	17. If one person can hold a torch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Winston Churchill has one or two things to say.

In the followings days, she held meetings with the mayor and the few local officials who had any interest in culture – not a terribly exhausting business, but there was also Mr Jelk, who barely listened to a word she said and tried to take her hand on a couple of occasions during the conversation. She very nearly turned him into something far less agreeable than a rabbit just to illustrate the repercussions of her project. In spite of everything, it was worth it, she firmly believed, and she was so set on it anyway that any form of resistance was out of the question – the municipality had learned its lesson on the subject long ago, and nobody dared contradicting her too much when she was driven by that kind of energy.

Sunday was very bright when she finally found the time to explain her plan to Emelius – whom she wasn't avoiding any more, though the dreams certainly hadn't stop or become milder.

“And so you see, I told them restoration was one thing, and I could, I suppose, do that too on the side, but all that space cannot go to waste, not at a time like this. So I offered to give after-school lessons. For girls.”

“For girls?” he frowned, a bit puzzled by the precision. “You don't mean...sewing, home economics and that sort of things?”  
To be fair, that was what after-school lessons for girls generally meant, and she knew he only asked because he was aware she did not care in the least for such activities, and was notoriously bad at them.

“Oh, I suppose that is what they have in mind, but rest assure I have been less than specific. Now you're neglecting one vital point of interest: why do laundry when you can learn a spell that will do it for you? Not that I intend to stick to such trivialities: there is after all a world outside one's kitchen, as the recent events took care to teach us.”

He would not have looked at her differently if she had announced she would travel to the moon with the village's girls to find if a man really lived there.

“By George, Eglantine, you are going to open a school of witchcraft? In Pepperinge?”

“I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, dear,” she smirked mischievously, examining her nails with too much care. How she would enjoy herself, she just couldn't wait.

“If you want my opinion, local education leaves much to be desired, and I figured it wasn't being overconfident to believe there was knowledge I could share on subjects that are often neglected. Small, practical things like how to identify and use herbs, basic astronomy, a bit of chemistry that we'll call cooking lessons to please everyone, all the field trips we can take… And yes, who would know about it if, with time, I were to broach over minor improvements of one's daily life, like a way to carry heavy charges more efficiently, or to get rid of unwanted solicitors? You know, solving a quadratic equation is a bit of a spell in itself, especially if you're a girl of eleven. It's most of all a matter of what you call things. When I was young, I did maths and I did magic. I did not know it then. Maybe I'm not the only one.”

The way he was looking at her right now brought her back to the first time they had met – she was so crossed she barely noticed it then, the light in his eyes, the astonishment. They were few, those who would look at her like that when she was talking about her witchcraft. But he was an illusionist – and now she believed it didn't make any difference that he was a poor one. What you called things really hardly mattered there. It was just like with family.

“It's a trick,” she shrugged, not resisting the pure wave of enthusiasm she felt for this idea, not even tarnished by the perspective of having to interact with people – she was getting better at that, she was almost certain, the vicar being just an exception.

“I think it's an amazing trick,” he smiled warmly, putting his hand over hers on the kitchen's table. “Right now I have in mind a very clear picture of you sitting on a floating desk, making pointed observations to a crowd of astounded little girls looking up from their pulpits in that old stony hall… Oh yes, I have to declare this is making me rather giddy.”

It was that hour of the day when the cottage was so sunny, the light coming in at just the right angle, making all the rooms warmer and comfier for a while. It was hard not to let oneself go, not to misbehave at such an hour. She should have napped, she reflected. For now, having chosen to stay up and to get caught up in her own project, she was left to look at him, his eyes, his face, his hand on hers, as he smiled again to say, in a tone one used to say something a bit different, she could have sworn, but again she didn't know much:

“I'm happy for you.”

She loved it, when he wasn't playing. Wasn't he wonderful? A good friend, the best friend there ever was? And she wanted to tell him as much, or something of the sort at least, she wasn't certain what but something. She would have, probably, of course she would have, if the bell had not rung at that moment.

 

They heard Paul run down the stairs with the grace of a baby elephant, rushing to open it. Carrie and Charlie had gone to take part in a big football match with the children of the neighbouring village, and he must have grown a little bored, shouting at the top of his lungs “Who is it?” before opening the door. From where they were seated, they could only hear a stern voice ask, in a very posh accent:

“Good day, young sir, I'm looking for,” here the voice gave the distinct impression to be quoting from something, “a Miss Eglantine Price, a Mister Paul Rawlins and a Mister Emelius Browne”.

“That's a bit o' luck, because that's us all,” he waved at them enthusiastically, but they were already running for the door in panic.

Talking to Paul was a tall, smartly dressed man with a bowler, and behind him she could get a glimpse of several other hats.

“My lad, I really hope you're not messing with us, because we've been running around the damned county all morning like headless chickens. I'm at least two Scotches late on my prescribed schedule and if there's a thing I hate more than exercise, it's long, melancholic walks in the invigorating countryside.”

Slowly, the sea of black vests parted to reveal a small, round, impressive man moodily sucking on a cigar. If she hadn't been so stunned, she would have heard Emelius curse rather nastily under his breath.

“Blimey, you're the Prime Minister!”said Paul as he would have greeted Santa Claus. “Have we won something?”

“That's a damned good question, son,” Winston Churchill raised a sceptical eyebrow at the three of them. Reclaiming control of the situation, she gently but firmly shoved Paul out of the way.

“It's a great honour, Prime Minister. I am Eglantine Price, and this is my house. Would you like to come in?”

Immediately, Churchill rushed in with the air of a man who considered himself at home everywhere as a principle, while shooing the men of his escort away, exhorting them to “get lost at the pub for an hour or two, on expenses”. In the end, when he sat down heavily on the couch, only one remained at his side, standing straight and not looking at anyone.

“Fellows, let me tell you you were awfully hard to locate, and even when we knew it must have been the right village – the locals here are particularly reluctant to give directions, bloody over-suspicious, and I'm afraid a bit ill-informed about their current government. We had to call at at least five houses before we got here. I suspect we aroused some curiosity.”

She felt herself pale at the thought of Mrs Hobday nervously trying to make conversation with the Prime Minister of Britain while simultaneously alerting the whole village.

“I'm going to make tea,” Emelius blurted out in a blank voice, before disappearing in the kitchen. Churchill shot her what she would have called, if she had been certain to be in her right mind, a meaningful glance.

“So I assume you're the leader of the operations?”

For some reason, the underlying assumption that tea-making was to be associated with secondariness and superfluity cut her to the quick, when it really wasn't the time for that.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Prime Minister.”

After another look, Churchill exhaled a cloud of smoke in laughter.

“Have a little indulgence for an old man, Miss Price, I only tend to fall back to the configuration that is most familiar to me, and your face at the moment strongly reminds me of my respected employer. I'm here on a… courtesy visit, shall we say. There's no need to be so tense. In fact, quite the contrary.”

For many reasons, that was an affirmation she could not entirely trust. The British government had rather rational reasons to be particularly suspicious of them all. Another consequence they hadn't sufficiently examined when they embarked on that particular adventure. Anybody in this country with a minimal dose of clear-sightedness knew that Winston Churchill wasn't an idiot.

“Should I, young lad,” he turned to Paul, apparently trying on a different strategy, “assume that you're the “cheerful blond boy” who sprung out of a cupboard six months ago and delivered a big heavy box to my Secretary of State? The old boy thought he was going bonkers, and for a while I half agreed with him. That was a hell of a trick you played on us, eh?”

Of course, before she could stop him, Paul quickly answered, beaming:

“Yes, it was all my idea! And we stopped the war, right? It was us, for certain?”

Churchill looked entirely fascinated, as if this confirmed a wild hypothesis he had made but refused to believe.

“You could say that, yes, in a way you could say that.”

One more second and he shook his head, clearing his throat in a business-like fashion.

“Although I'm legally bound to tell you that victory was solely obtained thanks to the government's hard work and supreme level of competency, and I'd advise you to do the same if the expression wasn't so downright ridiculous, but they're very set on it. Now what exactly did that brilliant plan consist in, son?”

“Well I just messed with Hitler's office a couple times, then we went and stole the plans in that big...”

“Erm...tea! Tea's ready,” Emelius announced forcefully in the middle of Paul's sentence. She shot him a grateful look.

She hurriedly served everyone, struggling not to make her best porcelain service clink too much in her nervousness. Trying to look as innocuous as possible, she turned to their host who was contemplating the content of his cup with a healthy dose of scepticism.

“May I suggest that you address your questions to me, Prime Minister? Paul is in many respect an exceptional person, but he also happens to be eight.”

“I'm almost nine now! In nine months or so, that's a bit unfair!”

“All right,” the Prime Minister smiled tightly. “I like to keep myself well-informed, it's only natural, and I've heard you used to live alone before the war, Miss Price. And then, in the course of two years, you adopt three children and offer bed and board to a soldier – a would-be soldier at first, if I recall correctly. It seems that you really are a rather generous soul.”

“I'm sure I don't have to explain to you how the war can bring people together, Prime Minister.”

“Certainly, certainly. Pardon me my dear if I'm a bit suspicious: it is, after all, my job. But I admit I didn't quite know what to make of you three, even after the research we've made. For one thing, I really do wonder who it might be that you are working for. I know for a fact that you and the child stayed here during the war, and that you,” he pointed at Emelius, “were stationed in Norfolk – and how much fun that must have been –: you could not steal those plans. But again, you couldn't appear out of thin air into the War Cabinet, a place I pride myself in considering one of the most secure in the whole free world. So, I'm not quite sure what I should ask, Miss Price. What would you do if you were me?”

They stared at each other for a moment, gauging their adversary. Finally, she opted for the safest option, and tried her well-respected and most feared stern glance on the youngest Rawlins, adding a touch of raised eyebrow for good measure.

“Paul, why don't you go get your siblings in the village? It's getting late, and I'm sure they'll want to salute the Prime Minister on his way out.”

Inevitably, the technique failed to impress, and Paul cried in indignation as she pushed him toward the door:

“But I haven't even told them about the magic bed!”

Dear Lord in heaven, why had those children been educated to value the truth and a certain form of directness? How was she supposed to work in these conditions?

As she gently coaxed Paul out of the house, she heard Churchill comment to his secretary, probably making his own use of the eyebrow trick while looking at Emelius with a knowing look:

“So there's a magic bed now.”

She had the greatest respect for this man and all he represented, she did. And though conflicting, her relationship to the institutions had always been very deferential on her part (except for Church, fine, but that hardly counted). But she was beginning to have had quite enough of that particular mind game. Probably sensing it, and he had after all a thorough knowledge of her temper now, Emelius accompanied Paul outside, to convince him to do what he was told without too much of a fuzz. Grabbing the back of his empty chair for nerves support, she held the Prime Minister's stare and told him bluntly:

“If I were you, sir, I think I wouldn't ask for answers I'm not ready to accept.”

She watched as his face went from amusement to surprise to incredulity, before his eyes widened out of amazement for a second, quickly replaced by his usual unimpressed mask.

“You can't possibly mean...”

“Oh, I certainly do. I can assure you we are good, loyal citizens who don't abuse that power. I, for one, make a rule of not getting involved into politics: those were exceptional circumstances, as I'm sure you understand. And as he mentioned, this was all Paul's idea: we merely followed through.”

“And you're really expecting me to believe...”

“I'm not presumptuous enough to expect anything, Prime Minister. With all due respect, I rather hope you'll put your famous rational mind to good use and draw the logical conclusions. Some things are best left ignored. You said it was impossible for us to have been in Berlin; and it was. Therefore, someone must have given your staff our names to create a distraction. The mystery will stand, I'm afraid, but who can fully pretend to master the nest of vipers that is European politics at the moment? Under those circumstances, it is reasonable to assume that your department deserves all the credit.”

She could feel Emelius holding his breath in her back as their host clicked his tongue in a derisive way, taking the time to light himself another cigar before answering:

“Speaking of European politics, and I'm afraid you will think I have lost my inner child spirit, how terrible of me – but could you, at your convenience, give me one good reason not to think you're – for example – Russian spies?”

Maybe it was the sun, maybe the hour – she really should have napped – but today her breaking point seemed to have been advanced by a great mile. Whatever was to blame, as she opened her mouth to say: “I will not tolerate being insulted”, Emelius intercepted her, grabbing her wrist as if to physically bring her back to common sense:

“What Miss Price means, I'm sure, is that she's always lived here, in an honest neighbourhood where even vague contacts with France are unheard of, let alone Russia. I'm certain you have found her upbringing absolutely protected her from such influences: her father was a war hero, she saved three innocent children from the Blitz, let me tell you you'll never find a finest British citizen in all the Empire. As for myself, though I'll admit my character have little chance to shine on paper, no trace of unpatriotic behaviour can be found in...”

He has embarked in one of his long speeches – he used to do that a lot when she met him, a lot less afterwards. It still came out now and then, either out of enthusiasm or embarrassment, she had found, which was rather touching. Watching him trying to sweet-talk the Prime Minister of Great Britain to save them from her lack of patience was quite a spectacle. As she noticed the derisive smirk on Churchill's lips, she impulsively decided to intervene:

“You owe Mister Browne the idea of setting the Nazis archives on fire. It seems to me a strategic decision that shouldn't be disregarded.”

As Churchill whistled appreciatively, Emelius turned to her, furiously whispering:

“Eglantine, that's really not...”

“It's all right, lad, there's no need. Please forgive me, I forget my manners, and this whole affair is so damned confusing – you must understand. I now have to deal with more than fifty obnoxious bureaucrats who happen to be very taken with their own importance, and they're absolutely clueless as to why they suddenly appear to have won a war at least a year before what they all expected. First the Cabinet's cupboard, then the magic bed… You need to expect a little distrust. I think I may be too old for all this,” he sighed, looking entirely unconvinced by his own words and very pleased with himself.

“Or at least too sober. I'm sorry but would you happen to have a liquor stash hidden somewhere? I would be much better company with my fix.”

“Of course,” she said, eager for an escape. She needed to calm down too. “My father kept a liquor cabinet; old bottles but from the look of it I expect them to be quite drinkable.”

“Marvellous.”

 

By the time she came back with the drinks, Churchill looked even more smug than when she had left, and Emelius was curiously red. She poured everybody a double Scotch, mentally raising her glass to her father's ghost, who would have been quite proud to see his daughter hold her liquor in the presence of a government official.

“So,” Churchill began, apparently very bucked up by his drink, “now to serious business. I'm not going to ask you further questions about magic pillows and whatnot, because I'm very much attached to my old mind as it is and I've got a feeling that would cause me to lose it. I don't want to know how you did it. Let's just say, because I indeed have some trouble imagining you as conspirators, or else you're really bloody good, it was a touching patriotic story.”

The irony was dripping from his voice like expensive alcohol. She could see why his political career had been so long and successful.

“In any case, it is not a story we want to be spread, Prime Minister.”

“Of course, of course. I'm sure we can all agree on something reasonable, for my own peace of mind. Small discrete family, distant German cousins who secretly worked for us, stole the plans and sent them to you because who would suspect a letter addressed to Pepperinge Eye?”

“If the idea of having German family ties is not too inconvenient to you,” she turned to Emelius, “yes, I think that would be an acceptable thing to say.”

“Not offensive, not offensive at all,” Emelius muttered.

“Capital. Now, as for the rewards...”

“Rewards?”

She couldn't believe how fast a turn the conversation had taken.

“Why you don't mean to suggest the Crown would be ungrateful under such circumstances, I expect. But since we agreed on discretion, I'm afraid knighthood is out of order, and I cannot very well offer you a peerage confidentially. Which is a crying shame, I suspect you would have made a terrific duchess. Perhaps that could still be arranged in a few years, if nothing unsuitable comes out, and if you're keen.”

“Don't be absurd.”

“Same goes for you of course, lad, by appointment or marriage, whatever you wish, I'm no expert on procedure but I've heard those things transmit, and you have the children to consider. For them it might be easier to set up something decent.”

 

It soon turned out that “something decent” amounted to an impressive number of pounds and all sorts of extravagant services.

“You'll want to send those children to college, or help them settle, even take them on a tour of Europe – it's a very popular thing these days, although I can't say, after looking dead in the hostile eyes of the Continentals, that I understand why. Maybe you'll need a house in London someday. Maybe one of them will need a recommendation, or to be bailed out of jail – not a judgement on my part, I've sat on those cold benches a good three times, not once on a slightly reasonable charge. In any case, it's only one phone call.”

He had given them a very official-looking card, and a letter engraved with the royal coat of arms.

“This really is top-notch Scotch – never say that too fast – if you don't mind me saying. You father seemed like a man after my heart. And if the money still embarrasses you, I'm sure there's a lot of good causes that need a champion and a patron presently – we may have won the war but for most people it's still on. Now I really must go before I get too wise, or my men will never recognise me – secret services indeed. I count on you to remember your German cousins, or maybe your Soviet friends, and never move that bed anywhere near Buckingham and Downing Street. God knows we're dealing with enough nonsense as it is.”

 

Carrie and Charlie arrived just in time to receive a careless pat on the head and a special word of congratulation. Paul just stuck his thumb out to the Prime Minister as he passed.

“Watch out for your parents though – they are rather nervous fellows, if you ask me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A really long one, but we're approaching the end (two or three chapters to go depending on if I write that epilogue or not). Next one will be a good one hopefully. So, I wanted to include this for plot's sake, but I was afraid it was going to be tedious. In the end, I think it rather is, but Churchill is entertaining enough, so there's that at least.   
> Also, yes: Pepperinge Eye School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, here we go. I love the idea of witchcraft subrepiciously becoming common knowledge among local girls who will come of age in the 50s-60s. Just imagine.
> 
> Title from "One Person", Dear World, another rarity.


	18. How to let go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally.

“Enchanting! Marvellous!”

“Come now, you're being unreasonable again.”

She paused long enough to smile at him fondly and a bit maliciously, pretending to disapprove:

“Mr Browne.”

They had put the children to bed, after much protestation and anarchic celebrations – Charlie did a surprisingly good Churchill imitation, which had everyone in peals of laughter. It didn't help either that he had himself been calling Eglantine “Duchess” all evening.

They were finally alone, allowed to rejoice in a soberer fashion, with a good fire in the hearth and a disc in the phonograph. Somehow he had managed to convince her to dance – or maybe it had just happened tacitly, he couldn't even remember. They were slowly swaying, without giving it too much thought, more leaning on each other than anything and speaking in low voices not to wake up the sleeping trio, with a sort of intimacy he found both soothing and excruciating.

“But my dear, my dear, the way you resisted him and stood your ground, it was… You never really allow me to pay you any compliment, do you? I can almost hear you complain, but Eglantine… That was the bloody Prime Minister!”

Although she of course rolled her eyes and gently shook her head, as he knew she would, she was still smiling that warm smile of hers.

“Language,” she commented lightly. “And manners, too. What did he say to you while I was gone, anyway? You looked – pardon me but that's the image that comes to mind – like a rabbit caught in the headlights.”

 

That made him drop his gaze momentarily. He hadn't said much, during their interview, happy to let her lead the negotiation – that was her area, not his, he could deal with half-witted animals and idiotic football games, but anything that required more seriousness always had him in a fit of nerves. He knew he would have be eaten alive by a man like Churchill, and as soon as she had left to fetch the brandy, the old fox had had him cornered.

“That's a jolly good service you paid us, burning those files. Probably saved some skins too. I'm pleased to see a military life in Nothingamshire offers such opportunities, who would have thought. What an odd little escadrille you make.”

Over those matters he really didn't have to force modesty, especially when faced with such a predatory smile.

“Miss Price is only too kind. I barely did a thing, I'm no hero.”

The old man waved the remark away dismissively.

“It's all right, lad, that's not really how this works. Trust me, I've been there for more years than I care to count, you learn the ways.”

“Without her we wouldn't have amounted to anything.”

It immediately came to him that he probably should keep such remarks to himself. But the Prime Minister only smiled into his drink, taking another generous sip before humming appreciatively.

“Well she certainly is something. Even from there, one has to be blind and dumb to miss it.”

“Oh yes,” he said absent-mindedly, out of relief. Praising Eglantine was something he could do without ulterior motive at least. “She's fabulous.”

He realised his error when he heard a mirthful chuckle echoing from the bottom of a glass.

“Price and Browne, eh? Dear old boy, I don't know if I should slap you on the back or kick you in the shins, but what exactly do you think you're doing? Although I suppose I could arrange for some decoration or other, if you need something to impress her with.”

How was one supposed to react when the Prime Minister of Great Britain had apparently set his heart on giving him courtship advice? He probably was gaping, but he considered he had cause.

“Oh but it's not...”

“For sure. And why do you think she's keeping you there, then? The things I heard on my way here, and you're both so disappointing in that respect! I do love a good saucy tale, but you… Not really scandalous, are you? See, that's the same story all over again. I expected spies, I got a dressing-down by a well-bread country lady. You even have a magic _bed_! One does wonder! Though I agree with you lad, marriage is such an annoying affair, and it seems to be the time to be modern, so...”

In a courageous effort to regain some of his dignity, he stammered:

“Pardon me sir, but I think you're reading far too much into the situation.”

“That's my job, I'll say. Now what's yours? If not a spy then, I read, some sort of magician? And she's what, a witch? Really your lot is an odd one. Try and make an effort then, at least a fairy tale is something everyone can understand.”

He was about to reply something that had quite a chance of being a confession, but hearing Eglantine coming down the stairs, he hastily closed his mouth while Churchill muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “hopefully I'll be able to sell it that way”.

 

Eglantine's inquisitive stare brought him back to reality, and his mind reeled, looking for a plausible lie.

“Not much. He questioned me about the German archives, the lists we found. You know me, I can sell almost everything, but when it comes to downplaying I'm not exactly the man of the situation.”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “I doubt anyone could change this man's mind, even by using a Panzer. He's not at all as overwhelmed by this as he says he is – I even thought he took the magic bit very well, considering.”

After a second of reflection she added:

“Either that or we're now under surveillance. But in here, with everyone constantly on the watch already, I wish him good luck – his agents will find themselves to be the subject of gossip before the end of the week.”

He chuckled quietly against her cheek, savouring the fact that she could be in his presence, even close to him, and comfortable. The previous weeks of isolation had been, in retrospect, quite taxing. This thought brought him back to the first cause of their reunion, and he remarked more seriously:

“This, all those advantages, is not going to help with the children's sense of injustice.”

She stopped smiling.

“I know. But consider this: for now we may be left in peace and happy, our secret safe. This could always change. Imagine someone here discover something more substantial than your partiality to love potions. Imagine something happen to us, or that they try to take the children away from here. Even worse, imagine another war. The previous one was supposed to be the last, and I used to believe that. It's a good thing we have them, because we may need those protections one day. With so little to be sure of...” she trailed, looking at him in earnest, eyes very clear, and he nodded that he knew what she meant.

“My dear lady,” he joked, saluting her with a half-bow, not letting go of her hand, “you're still the wisest and fairest in the land.”

 

That was a delectable evening, a sort of secret enjoyment they got to share after so many months of doubt and embarrassment. They hadn't had much time alone together, the children, the village, or even – it could be said, couldn't it – the whole British government demanding their attention. But there, they felt forgotten from the world, in the quiet, warm living room, moving in slow circles across the carpet, back and forth, safe. The tension of the day washed away from their bodies as the music grew more and more mellow. It was late, but neither of them felt the need to point it out. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, only enjoying her presence, the fact that they had been through this, and that they were fine. They were fine. Their war was over.

*

Progressively, they had slowed down their rhythm, so much that it could barely be called dancing any more. He kept looking at her, but her eyes were cast, her lids heavy, as she leaned slightly on his shoulder, hair was glowing like a fire in the warm hue of the room. After a quiet twirl he brought her hand to his mouth to kiss her fingers the way he used to do every time they parted, feeling this should now serve to announce their reunion. This elicited a lazy, knowing smile on her part. Which is perhaps why then, without thinking, he made the hand he was holding turn slightly to press a kiss on the inside of her wrist, like it was the natural thing to do.

The intimacy of the gesture caught up with him mid-act, his pulse coming up to his ears, warming his cheeks along the way. Still, he was able to hear the sharp intake of breath in the silence of the room. The atmosphere shifted. When he looked back at her, her eyes were finally on him, huge, uncommonly dark, and the intensity of the stare made him shiver. He wanted more of that kind of attention. They had all but stopped in their track, but he was still holding her arm, and almost on its own his mouth ghosted a bit lower, barely touching the fragile skin against which he could swear he felt a beating pulse, hot and racing. As he let his lips glide down at a glacial pace up to the crook of her elbow, he felt her body melt down in his arms. Far from the regulated propriety of dancing, she was much closer now, closer than she ought to be in any circumstances, clutching his shoulder for balance as if her life depended on it. Her perfume came over him in waves of hot ginger. The place where her fingers were grasping, closer to his neck than to his shoulder now, was burning.

Though the moment could be broken any minute, he found himself taking his time, resting his face against the soft skin of her arm and breathing slowly, as if he wanted to live here forever, in this blissful, fragile articulation where he could feel her alive and so present, with him, with him, until she began trembling in his embrace. Losing his measure, he finally kissed the vulnerable flesh several times, and she let out a shaking hum, almost melodious, that echoed so close to his ear he believed for a second he was going to faint. The hand that had stayed innocently enough on her waist became insinuating, closing on her hip, more holding than resting, though this made little sense – he would never actually get to hold her, it was mere presumption, the useless fraud he was – then the tips of her fingers reached the centre of his throat, sending his thoughts off-track.

His eyes shot open feverishly, only to see her closed, face glorious, flushed, mouth slightly open as if struggling for air. As he bent down to kiss again, she managed a low, raspy whisper, almost a prayer:

“Emelius...”

He was lost, he had known for so long, but when he saw her like this, coming apart because of him, because of what he was doing, all he could say, desperately clutching to his manners and restrain, was an oddly polite and low “Yes?” that nevertheless sounded so hoarse it made him feel ashamed of himself.

“I think… I think you'd better stop now,” she said, obviously torn.

The fingers at his throat were getting agitated, curving in a movement halfway between a caress and a scratch. His brain had deserted him ages ago, and he strove to make sense of her words.

“Why?” he asked, his cheek against her hair, so soft and vaporous. All the same, he let go of her arm, his hand finding his way to the back of her neck in what was perhaps a more conventional posture, if not a more appropriate one. Lightly, he traced a line down her spine, slow but deliberate, once, twice, waiting for her answer as she bit her lips, bringing even more colour to them. The whole affair had escalated so accidentally, and there was no part of what was happening he could understand, the scene feeling more like one of his best dreams than anything else.

“Because it's not… there's a risk of...”

She wasn't making much more sense than he was, in his opinion, but her arm was beginning to regain its autonomy, hand coming to rest on his chest while the other was still at his throat as if she wanted to chock him for his impudence. Maybe she would tear his heart from there for good: she was after all a witch through and through.

He lowered his mouth so that it would graze the side of her neck, fully intending to follow the curve to her shoulder. She whimpered, slightly backing up but not enough to break contact. Her eyes opened, slightly out of focus, and she seemed only then to realise they were still nose to nose, breathing erratically.

“Do you _want_ me to stop?” he whispered suggestively, because that was the only thing he really wanted to know, the only thing that really counted; not what was proper; not what was planned.

Her response, barely audible but still trying hard to be stern, almost made him laugh with glee.

“That's hardly the point, Mister Browne.”

God, he loved her. Before he could stop himself, he was placing kisses along her neck, murmuring as he went:

“Then please… make your point…Miss Price...for I fear you have lost me...here...”

“I...” she tried, sighing in frustration as his lips began to attack her jawline.

One of her hand pushed him away suddenly, and as he stepped back, making contact with the wall behind him, he had a second to realise what he had truly been doing, what he had done, and to think that was it, he had lost control and overstepped, overdone, he was out, out of this house, this family, because she would never tolerate such behaviour from him and there was no way… until her other hand grasped his tie and brought him back against her instantly, and she was kissing him, kissing him fiercely, with some of the authority she had always displayed with him since they first met. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he didn't understand the limits of his body any more, and he wasn't even sure what his first name was but he felt like the happiest, maybe most stupid man alive.

When they separated, she looked at him with what could be relief or bewilderment, and said, panting:

“You're still here! It didn't malfunction this time.”

But he was too distracted to understand or wonder what she could mean by this. For one thing, he wasn't sure he could manage language, to use words again. And there was the fact that he couldn't feel the ground under his feet. Admittedly, he was pretty shaken, but as he looked down past their jointed bodies, what he could see was an advantageous view of the living room, from about five feet high. If a smitten man was entitled to an opinion, may it be a nonsensical one, he was under the impression they were actually floating in the air. He made sure he was still holding her close and tried to catch her attention, as she seemed dreamily lost in her thoughts. When she finally reacted to his insistent pointing, she yelped and clutched to his arms.

“Oh for God's sake, what is it now? It was not a spell, I didn't say a word, can't I just be left alone?” she asked angrily to the ceiling before sighing, which only served to send them some inches higher.

“This...um...I...let me say...”

He would have to try that again.

“My dear Miss Price,” he uttered, his short breath in sharp contrast with the formal, tongue-in-cheek tone he was trying to adopt, “you certainly know how to sweep a gentleman off his feet.”

She almost rolled her eyes, a rather comic expression on someone whose always impeccable hair was currently a complete mess.

“Don't sing love songs to me, this is most embarrassing. I don't even know how to get us down. At this point we could be stuck here all night.”

“Frankly my dear, at the moment that doesn't sound like such a tragedy to me.”

He smiled as she gave him a pointed look. Extraordinary as it was, here they were, flushed and dishevelled, literally floating above the ground in each other's arms, and back on their old habits. Under such circumstances, he might as well keep saying inanities.

“Given what I saw of that treacherous broomstick of yours, I must admit I'm rather in favour of that new mode of transportation.”

“Now don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm a lot of things presently, but not ridiculous for once,” he looked at her with malice in his eyes as she tried, with little result, to straighten up in the air to regain some of her composure. “Charmed, bewitched, under a spell, you name it, after all it is your craftwomanship.”

“Really Emelius,” she shook her head but he was almost certain a fresh blush was creeping on her already hot cheeks, “I have to wonder if you hit your head on the way or if I should change you into a floating rabbit for good measure,” here a flash of guilt seemed to pass in her eyes. “I assure you this is beyond my control.”

If possible, he was in the process of becoming even fonder of her, watching her grow genuinely embarrassed for turning his head so hard it actually sent them flying up. He took hold of her hand, making her sway a little, convincing her to test their new environment. After a moment she admitted, smiling a shy smile:

“It reminds me of the sea.”

“Do you mean that time you reluctantly tore yourself away from your supremely important task to notice what a fabulous dancer I was?”

What was probably meant to only be a playful push on her part ended up in both of them tumbling over, and when they regained their balance they were just lying in the air as if on an invisible bed.

“I'm really sorry for this whole mess, have I said that already?” she asked, a bit softened, arm spread across his chest, for imaginary support presumably.

“Don't be,” he said, caressing her cheek tenderly. “It seems to me we're a bit lower now, and I could stay there forever anyway. Living a light-headed life with you, setting up a business in the air, building a floating family, an amazing juggling number, or maybe a fakir act, oh that would work tremendously, and you could...”

He was silenced then because she was kissing him again; he had made her kiss him again, which was all had really been on his mind since she'd stopped. This kiss was more planned, it seemed, than the previous one, calmer but more thorough, almost methodical, like she intended to truly end him this time. Now that his body was mostly supported by what felt like clouds, there was only her, only her weight on him, and her arms around him. They only stopped when they reached the ceiling, having apparently ascended without noticing it. He couldn't care less though: the first time had felt more like an accident, a mere impulse, he had been playing with her nerves one time too many, but this kiss… He had half a mind to cry right now, dignity be damned.

As he let out a shaky breath, his body suddenly went up and he effectively knocked his head, missing the light-bulb by an inch. As he rubbed the back of his head, Eglantine's eyes lightened up:

“I think I understand! It's the breathing! We should try to control it.”

He was tempted to raise an eyebrow at her, given that they were panting hard after their spectacular kiss. Besides, she was still laying on him, a position that somehow made normal breathing even more of a challenge – he was very conscious of her whole body now.

He must have looked a little desperate, because she scolded:

“No, no, this is perfectly simple. Just breathe when I do, in and out, quietly now.”

He was trying, he really was, but he found himself looking at her lips, which looked a bit swollen, and that surprisingly wasn't doing anything for his respiration, nor for his pulse for that matter. After a moment she opted for a more drastic solution, looking very professional if even redder than before.

“Let's try something else: close your eyes, don't think of anything, I'll get us up. In, and out. We've got to go down at least a bit if we don't want the children to have to catch us with nets tomorrow morning.”

Without further ado, she placed his hands on her stomach, authoritatively repeating “in and out” for him to match her breathing.

“Are you really not thinking of _anything_?” he mouthed quietly, but the exchange of air between them actually had a calming effect, even if touching her like this couldn't be totally innocent. When they were low enough, she tried to navigate them toward the stairs, blowing air in the opposite direction.

“Don't let go, I don't want you to stay stuck here like a bunch of Christmas mistletoe, not after surviving two wars.”

They were still too high to reach the stairs, but too low to be able to step on the second floor. As he turned to her, he found she was staring at him with the look she sometimes had in the past few months, the one he couldn't quite make sense of.

“It seems that we need to get up again. Do you have any suggestion?”

The tone was innocent enough but sounded suspiciously muffled.

“Oh, plenty,” he heard himself declare in a low voice. “It is – ah – perfectly simple. Don't worry about a thing.”

With that he bent toward her so that his mouth would be just below her ear, and whispered, lips brushing against her skin, unable to believe his own nerve:

“I've been wondering where I should kiss you next. I was thinking about your ankles – perfectly beautiful, I remember them quite well from that time I had to grab them not to fall back into the sea when we were in the process of being fished out. And now… You know, just where the bone curves, there's a softer spot, I expect, that I could target, hovering above at first, circling and circling, brushing, and then, when it's time, descend, and touch, delicately but decidedly, when I couldn't just...bear...to wait...any longer.” He finished by kissing the place he'd been speaking against, as they crashed into the ceiling of the second-floor.

“As I said,” he grinned as she tried to hide her embarrassment, her breathing absolutely erratic, “I've always been good at making my way to the top.”

If her expression right now didn't justify a bit of gloating, he didn't know what did.

“Now don't flatter yourself. When we met you had just appropriated someone else's luxurious house. I'm not certain you can sustain that way of life, Mr Browne. And,” she commented cheekily, still out of breath, “you live here now. In my house.”

Still unsure on what ground they were standing (or rather not standing), he pointed out, trying to go along with her teasing:

“Yes, and this is my room. This is yours. What do you intend to do about that?”

He knew he was turning crimson, he could feel it, but the question had to be asked and was more practical than it sounded. Inertia made it harder to move alone, and they were still far from landing. Additionally, at that point he was too afraid to let go, afraid she would come to her senses and let him float away forever.

“What I intend to do is find out if at least one of them, if any, is ajar, because there is no way we can reach a handle from here.”

It turned out only his door wasn't closed, and they were able to more or less swim across his room.

“Well at least the children won't find us floating in the air when they come down for breakfast tomorrow morning,” Eglantine commented, as an attempt at stretching made her fall on her back again. He was quite unsure what was going on at the moment, not daring to comment any more. Having her flying nine feet above his bed wasn't the way he had envisioned her visit here, if he had envisioned it at all.

“This ceiling could use a good dusting,” she remarked to no one in particular. Deciding he was going to lose his mind, he let himself fall flat next to her. They were still holding hands, for balance, though it wasn't exactly clear which one had the more trouble breathing now. His arousing speech may have worked beyond his expectations, but he was stuck with the images he had summoned himself. Well, he supposed now that they were here, he could always try to be practical.

“It's probably not going to be the most comfortable night, but we could at least take our shoes off,” he offered completely innocently. She turned on her side to look at him knowingly, as he smiled a tired smile.

“Let me assist.”

When he got her assent, he swam slowly to her feet, and put her heels off, one after the other, letting his hands caress here and there as he did. They were already as high as they could, what harm could that make? Her shoes fell to the floor and he proceeded to fulfil his promise, promptly locating the sensitive spot he had described earlier. One slow kiss after the other, and he could have done it for hours, for his whole life maybe, after waiting for what had felt like an eternity – his teeth grazed the flesh lightly and she moaned.

“Oh God… Please stop, really this time, I think… you're going to choke me up, or we'll end up in the attic...”

He was himself very low on oxygen and the pressure of the ceiling was becoming hard to sustain, so he floated back to her side calmly, looking a bit sheepish. They watched each other in silence for a while, like two people lying in bed together, contemplating how late it was.

“This magic is extremely draining,” she whispered after a while, and he couldn't disagree – he felt exhausted.

“I have a confession to make,” he finally said, voice a bit hollow. “I don't think… I don't think I can manage to make us land tonight. At least not when I'm conscious. Your presence… is a bit of a distraction. I'm sorry Eglantine.”

She studied his face, looking for humour, and finding for once not trace of his usual banter, she smiled a bit sadly:

“I think one could say it's a shared predicament, my dear.”

And then, looking at each other, two fools lying above the ground, victims of a facetious kind of magic, they laughed, ending in each other's arms.

“Goodnight” he thought he heard at some point, feeling a soft pressure on his cheek. He didn't remember if he answered. What was certain was that, later that night, having fallen asleep, they both landed onto his bed, none of them noticing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, I hope I'm keeping my promise. Well, one chapter and the epilogue to go, I hope you've enjoyed it.
> 
> Title from the title song of Anyone Can Whistle.


	19. Nowhere to go but up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have to talk, and then not talk.

The ray of light that had finally waken him was too golden – it was late. He could hear the children playing outside, quite far – something about liquor and cigars. Clumsily, he felt the blankets beneath him: he was laying above them, oddly enough. Alone.

Refusing to open his eyes, he let his hands search across the bed, delaying the moment when he would have to face his inevitable solitude. He had to calm down. Late, he had thought – that would explain it, what with the children and everything, why would she have stayed with him, in… in his bed, looking at his clueless sleeping face, no surely that was the reason. He must have looked so stupid, so achingly stupid. And her…

He had to find her.

God, he really hoped he had not imagined any of it.

Taking ridiculous comfort in the fact he was fully clothed, rumpled as his suit may be – another glimmer of hope – he ran down the stairs. It was at least eleven, he could feel it in the air, and she wasn't anywhere to be seen – not in the living-room, not in the kitchen, not in the yard. Frantically, he scanned the room for any trace, any proof of the previous night's events. The disk was still in the gramophone, but it could have been left there before. He couldn't believe they hadn't knocked anything off, broken anything – the furniture looked back at him placidly, undisturbed. Finally, a distant noise, faint clinking of glass – the pantry.

 

When he entered the exiguous local, he was already almost out of breath. She was there, an apple in one hand, obviously busy choosing some for lunch among the orchard's output – it had been a spectacular year, and the whole room was filled with the heady scent of maturing fruits. They stood a bit below ground level here, and the windows were high and narrow, letting the sun in at a very raking angle. Her face was caught right in the centre of the honey-coloured ray of light that illuminated the wall when she turned around as he stumbled against some cider bottles. Her stupor, in that halo, fleetingly reminded him of those ancient, golden paintings, picturing muses and goddesses. He took a step forward, entering the light. It cut right across their throats, letting only their heads emerge from the dimmer atmosphere of the pantry.

Silence was broken by the sound of an apple being dropped to the ground, rolling, rolling. It stopped by his shoe. He took another step. Another. She moved back imperceptibly against the wall, looking at him in a way he would have called defiant, had he regained the full command of his vocabulary. He was nearly on her when he felt the air move, and as he looked around, he saw all the apples in the room floating at eye-level, as if they were hanging from an invisible tree.

“It was real,” he almost cried from relief, grabbing her shoulders gently while inwardly thanking all the divinities that came to mind. She was still watching him intently, and her hand closed over his wrist, thumb brushing the inside in a loaded gesture.

“You won't leave,” she whispered, and he was left wondering if that was meant to sound like a promise, an order, or a supplication. He hoped she wasn't wasting magic over him again; this time there was really no need. But of course she would think that, wouldn't she? He hadn't really given her reasons to trust his ability to stand close to her, too close, without dissolving into thin air – a vanishing act, oh yes, what a terrible, terrible magician he had made.

“Oh dear, I think you'll have to beat me with a stick to keep me away,” he murmured fondly.

Though he had of course been the one to slip, he still couldn't believe she had been the one to kiss him – properly, for lack of a better term. But, he thought as he stroke her cheek, feeling her lean into the touch, he would have to make amends. And if to her it didn't mean… if she didn't feel… He was unable to finish that thought. He'll just have to find out later, because she was glowing in the light, surrounded by dozens of apples, and if he didn't kiss her now he thought he'd probably die.

 

*

She saw him tilt his head, brushing her hair with the tip of his fingers as if she were a precious thing, as if she were made of clouds and he was afraid she would disappear when – but he had said he would stay. She had fled in the morning because it didn't seem fair to lie with him, his breath on her skin, his arms around her. Suddenly the warmth of his body was too much and too uncertain at once, and she had been frightened by how much and how definitely she wanted him. The more she looked at him, the more she panicked and in the end she had to disentangle herself for fear she would make them hover again only by thinking about the previous night.

 

But now, as his lips tentatively brushed against hers, in a manner that was so new, so fragile too, she found she didn't care all that much, except…

Everything was soft and she shouldn't think about anything else, not yet, not now.

Except he needed to know, she couldn't keep it to herself, it had been wrong not to talk…

God, their previous kisses had been intense in a pent-up way, but that one had a kind of vibrant delicacy to it that threatened to make a mess of every feeling she had carefully folded inside herself, neatly, tidily – all that had melted down, probably for the best.

Except she should tell him the truth, even if it could, ah, even if it could ruin…

It really was awfully hard to think. She would have to pull him closer, impossible as it seemed, she would have to find inches between them to fill. This pace was going to make her lose her mind. Last night they had to pretend everything was playful, when it really wasn't. When she had met him he liked to pretend he was only light-headed, too. And now here he was, acting as if it was only a light kiss, nothing too substantial. She still wasn't so good at seeing past appearances, was she?

Her whole body felt like it was slowly being pressed into a hot iron vice. One of her hands had found its way under his shirt, grazing bare skin blindly, which had him clinging to her even more; they hadn't breathe for hours it seemed, but still he was kissing her excruciatingly, with trembling emotion, hand gliding along her neck.

Would that scare him, she had to do it anyway, she had to, oh ––

and there was his other hand slowly, slowly moving up her thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her skin, and it was – everything except, except…

She had always wanted things too much.

It was torture, that fleeting pressure, and at last he pressed his lips to hers a bit more firmly but barely, barely, not letting her forget that his thumb was now caressing her inner thigh under her skirt. In frustration, she had to graze at his bottom lip with her teeth, as the only alternative to bursting completely, the white pulsating light under her lids burning brighter and brighter, and they would both be driven to distraction, except…

His moan was covered by the sound of dozen of cider corks exploding in a huge “pop” that startled them so much they almost fell over. She looked haggardly around to see spurts of froth springing everywhere, sprinkling the walls and the floor as if they were having a decadent 20s party. After a beat, a very flushed Emelius let out an incredulous chuckle, and commented in a voice so husky it sent shivers down her spine:

“Good Lord, Eglantine. Yes, I couldn't agree more.”

As if the magic was something she had said, as if it counted as a confession, and suddenly she couldn't hold it any longer. Before he could do anything, she blurted out:

“I've kissed you before.”

Not letting him remark that he remembered it, and quite vividly, from the previous night, she added, out of breath as she was:

“But you know nothing about it. It was some time ago, and it didn't go as it should have, not that I, I have any idea… At the end, there was a flash, an overflow of… I don't know, just like this, and suddenly you were a rabbit. Which is why I think you forgot, and I never told you. That was a terrible thing to do. I'm dreadfully sorry. I just didn't know what to make of it.”

She was forced to stop, unable to say more, aware that she was losing what little grasp she had left on the situation.

He blinked. She had expected shock, and it took him long seconds to react, but then his question wasn't the one she had been waiting for:

“When?”

He looked like he couldn't believe what he was being told, and she couldn't blame him.

“It was an accident,” she whispered as if it explained anything.

“ _When_ ,” he repeated, making it sound like it was maybe the most important question he had ever asked her, as if everything depended on whether she had kissed him in the garden by moonlight, in the kitchen over a vase of flowers, or maybe in a deserted barrack on a magic bed, while swimming in the sea, or even at mass, or... She failed to see why it would matter so much.

“At the station. When you left.”

“At the… but Eglantine that was ages ago!”

It was quite painful to observe the incredulity in his eyes, and in all honesty she knew that it was her fault; she had spent so much time worrying about losing him that she had forgotten what little faith he had in himself. He shook his head:

“No, that's not possible, at that time you wouldn't even look at me, not when… And why would you, when I was just running away like a coward?”

By the way he moved his mouth – she remembered where her teeth had been – she knew without really listening he was on the verge of getting lost in his own words. It happened when he was trying to convince someone of something he hadn't consider properly himself, and was figuring out as he went.

“...is that because I was leaving, and earlier when you asked me to stay, were you only afraid, and that time when you were sick, but then it cannot mean...”

Cascades of words, splashing out, just like when he was desperately trying to convince her to be part of his show and she couldn't understand what in the devil's name he was talking about. It made her heart crumbled but at the same time, half-listening to his convoluted explanation as to why she couldn't possibly have shown even a passable interest for him at that time actually had her feel, perhaps by contrast and perhaps out of a sense of deep understanding, very calm. They were both ridiculous. One minute ago she was about to swoon in his arms, after nearly destroying the room out of pent up desire, and he still questioned her motives.

Meanwhile, Emelius had come to admit he did forget the events directly preceding his departure, but even so, if she had accidentally turned him into a rabbit again, didn't that mean she was acting against her better judgement, and:

“...oh Christ, no, are all these manifestations the sign that you don't fully want to be, you didn't fully want for all this to happen? Because I swear, I swear to you Miss Price, you don't have to feel forced into anything, I won't leave, I can just… stay away, help you with the children, without ever pretending to more...”

“I love you.”

“...I know I've not always acted in the most trustworthy fashion, but things have changed a lot these last two years, and I promise I can just be...”

Her words seemed to finally catch up with him, and he stopped abruptly, daring to meet her eyes again.

All the floating apples fell to the ground at the same time.

He was looking at her like he had never seen her before. She held his arms against her, relishing in having stemmed the flow so simply, so easily, and bent toward him to say as in confidence, smiling apologetically:

“In fact, I'm so unreasonably in love with you I think it had my magic in complete disarray. I'm afraid it cannot be helped.”

She suspected this new sense of bravery came out of how annoyed at herself she currently was. Such levels of self-delusion were unheard of, and to think she took pride in always showing common sense. And still she found she was terrified at the thought he could decide this was too heavy a weight she was putting on his shoulders.

But, though he still looked like he had been hit by a ton of bricks, his hand found its way to her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes:

“Eglantine. You know how I feel.”

His expression was so vibrant it was almost too much to bear, and she had to shake her head slightly, voice slightly trembling:

“Do I? Because you always say a lot of things, you know.”

“All of it.”

He sounded like he couldn't believe she was even asking, like she was forcing him to state the obvious.

“I meant all of it. Everything. You _know_ why I keep bringing you flowers; of course I love you. You said that everything was fine.”

She found herself at loss for words. He leaned forward, whispering, suddenly more uncertain:

“But I never thought you would have me. A woman such as you...”

That was more than could be reasonably tolerated, really, and resolving herself to intervene she cut him by pressing her lips to his again with the full intention of showing him one could not get away with light and agonizing eternally.

When they both emerged from it, panting, she managed to comment with some poise:

“I may have granted you a thing or two, but I expect there are laws against that impossible kisses of yours.”

He could only laugh, hugging her as if to make sure it was really her, speaking those words and acting in a way that would make the vicar faint. They stood embraced for a long moment, the atmosphere of the room sightly headier with the scent of ruined cider, already drying on the sticky floor. After a while he asked, in a low voice where she could nevertheless detect the familiar teasing accent she enjoyed so much:

“When you say you've kissed me before, may I inquire what sort of kiss we're talking about?”

She smiled, face still buried in the crook of his shoulder, and took her time to answer.

“The serious sort.”

She heard him take a breath.

“I see.”

“You know how I'm always serious.”

“Oh indeed. And I kissed you back.”

It wasn't phased as a question, and she had nothing to add: his reaction at the time had been pretty unambiguous.

“And yet you didn't think anything of it?”

A fair point. She had really been quite foolish, but there was no need for him to rub it in so smugly.

“I have to confess I had some difficulty to think, at the time.”

A small chuckle, and now he was being rather unfair. She would have to find a way to retaliate.

“Oh, that serious?”

“I'm afraid so.”

He moved back a bit to look at her in a mock-serious fashion.

“And no love potion was involved in all this, I assume?”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at him, she answered:

“None that I know of, no.”

“Are you quite certain? Because I thought that tea you made back then tasted a bit...”

It wasn't that she was putting any ill-will into it, but some people just had to be silenced, one way or another. There was a limit to nonsense; besides he looked rather pleased with her methods.

“I'm terribly sorry,” he said when she allowed him some distance again. “I think I might be getting slightly delirious.”

“I suspect something similar on my part.”

It meant the world, to be able to laugh with him again. Her relief was so intense she was only too happy to play along, but the picture of his face as he had offered to take some distance, and how broken he had look then, was still very much engraved in her mind. He had called him “Miss Price” then, and for a second she was ready to cry.

“You're a good man, Emelius Browne. And you're wonderful. I've kept you here all this time, and I've never told you...”

“Oh yes, you practically had to chain me to your bed. What a torture it was. And without telling me how dashing I was, too. It's a wonder I even suvived.”

She rested her forehead against his, smiling playfully.

“I don't remember mentioning “dashing”.”

“No but you did mention slightly losing your mind, so I thought I would provide all the necessary help. I'm always at your service, Miss Price.”

“You're very kind, Mister Browne.”

A small pause, followed by:

“Not dashing, then?”

She had to kiss him again.

 

*

 

On a side note, she would never forget the look on his face when, after a fair amount of his deceitfully innocuous kisses, as they were both pretending to ignore how their hands were tucked under the other's clothes, she very calmly suggested they asked the bed to take them to a place “private enough to make love”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aand, that's about it. I want to write a short epilogue because it's always hard to let go. This chapter was a nightmare to write, everything that I tried sounded wrong, so it's the least terrible version I could produce. Sorry about the rather tasteless imagery, you know how it goes. 
> 
> Title from Mary Poppins Returns, because yes, it's allowed by the rules.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we sort of ever after.

From the outside, say in the eyes of an observer who would have casually strolled the path bordering the cottage trying to shoot a glance – while slightly worrying in the back of his mind about that rather forward lady, the one from the village's shop who had figured out his patrol brought him down there everyday and kept running into him “by chance” to compliment his bowler and his manners and complain about her widowhood and how long the nights got, things stayed mostly as they were. Given the tone of their relationship up to this point (“because you were such a shameless flirt,” Eglantine said asking to be rebuked), seriously sitting around a table with the children had seemed rather preposterous and they had decided in favour of something gradual. That being said, certain notable changes had been rather hard to ignore, among which the tendency they developed, and never really amended, to lose themselves in very long, very still kisses all around the house. It often happened that they could be found randomly sitting on the couch, leaning against the kitchen's table or just standing in the garden, kissing slowly, without moving or touching in any other way, for a quarter of an hour straight. It gave one (say, the same nervous observer, who was beginning to hope he would be called back to London quickly and leave all this nonsense behind) the impression to be looking at a surprisingly decent and disturbingly intimate photograph. It also gave less than a subtle hint to the Rawlins that some things might be new after all.

They didn't appear in the least disturbed. Charlie and Carrie just crossed the rooms as soon as they could, looking at nothing and giggling a bit in the beginning. Paul, maybe less discretely, squeaked and covered his eyes with his palms, walking straight ahead, which usually ended with him missing the door and crashing into some furniture.

Apart from those minor changes, life stayed remarkably the same. They didn't go to mass. Eglantine enchanted her own bed. Home was home.

 

* 

The new room in the barn was used to revive Emelius's old street shows – his pub's acquaintances all attended, along with some children and solitary elders. He had trained Paul to act as his assistant, minus the costume, and the boy earned quite a success with his unprompted anecdotes about their time under the sea or when the cat had almost eaten his brother. Eglantine sat in the back row and muttered under her breath; then, between the undoing of a magic knot and an infinite coloured handkerchief sometimes, not always, came out an illusion so genuine and mysterious that it left everyone delighted. A chair rose up in the air, bunches of flowers bloomed, rabbits multiplied inside small boxes. It was a dangerous game, but they played it just enough that the public erupted into cheers and left with wonder in their eyes, not believing but not quite sceptical either. Sometimes, Emelius managed it on his own.

He made a modest living out of the act, and occasionally hoped on a bike to stand in for the old postman who had arthritis and often needed to rest, saluting everyone, chatting around and becoming very popular except at church where he always found the door closed.

 

Meanwhile, in the old museum, every local girl was developing a form of frightened admiration for Miss Eglantine Price and her not entirely comprehensible lectures on all subjects. There was an ongoing debate among her pupils to determine if she was made of quite the same stuff as normal people, and if she indeed knew everything. When she announced one day, walking in the classroom, that her hearing, among a couple of other things, was indeed uncommonly good but that she was for example useless at knitting, she found a home-made scarf on her desk some weeks later, patched in every colour and obviously a grouped effort.

Carrie just smiled and erased the black board, thinking about their next geological trip to the shore. She liked the shapes of millenniums old ammonites in the chalk, like drawings of dusty snails all over the cliffs. Eglantine said this was a whole field of studies. She began a collection.

 

* 

They didn't talk about marriage perhaps because none of them had the will or the nerves to solicit an unsuspecting Mr Jelk for a ceremony. In truth they didn't really think they needed it, but always mentioned in passing that possibly, someday, soon enough, maybe next spring if the weather is nice, just to see Mrs Hobday's face, and would you wear a top-hat Mr Browne oh that would be so funny –

“I just think you would be too embarrassed if people stopped seeing you as an inflexible spinster, after all the years you spent frowning at them. I think you're much too attached to your credibility to wear tulle in public.”

“Well it's hardly my fault if people are shallow enough to ever take me for a frivolous bride. The talks! Maybe I could all turn them into something innocuous, just for the day. Alternatively, a memory spell? It's a lot of people but if I charm the rice...”

“I'm certain you'll make a very stern, perfectly austere bride, darling.”

“...or can't we just elope?”

A cry of indignation, coming from the second floor:

“And leave me alone with them? I'm supposed to go camping with Mabel real soon and those two don't even know how to light up the stove!”

“Don't worry Charlie, I'm sure Eglantine meant to mention it, but if we go by bed it can be a short and extremely collective elopement.”

 

* 

“Since you ask, I was considering giving them a demonstration of the rabbit spell next week, and I was wondering if you'd be willing...”

“You cannot possibly be asking me that.”

“You know, my recent research has led me to believe the body is growing more and more receptive to change of forms when they occur repetitively, call it magic memory if you will, which makes you the perfect test subject for...”

“Eglantine.”

 

 

*

One day after rain, under a white, neutral sky, Carrie trips in the yard and does not fall. As she opens her eyes again, she finds she is looking at the tiny reddish gravels from an odd angle, lying almost vertically four inches above the ground. She stays stuck like this for about an hour, calling in the silent wet garden, torn between worry and excitement. When Eglantine finally comes home from the museum, she can only hug her with a spontaneity she never thought she had, after carrying her in her arms to help her stand up again. She doesn't cry, because she is Eglantine Price, and Eglantine Price doesn't – ever, at least not in front of people, even in front of Carrie, Carrie who asks “has it happened to you before”, who asks “are you proud”, even when she has just offered her something that summons the word family to her mind like a fresh, powerful spell.

 

She cries when she tells Emelius.

And maybe he does a bit, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added this tidbit because it's hard to let go, but it's rather silly, really. Thanks for reading!  
> I believe it is now time for acknowledgement and recs: this is a very small fandom but I still have some favourites, some of them an inspiration for this fic:  
> \- first and foremost, kouw's Other Magic which you can find there (the mother of all the tension in this fic I would say ^^) : https://archiveofourown.org/works/962083  
> \- completely different and not shippy, the famous and wonderful Carrie fic by cher, Practical, and Magic : https://archiveofourown.org/works/143582 It is so sweet and an excellent characterization. i guess this inspired the magic school and some of the Carrie bits.  
> -it's only complete on ff.net, but I also like kouw's Your lot and my lot for all the heartbreak at the beginning : https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9919976/1/Your-lot-and-my-lot


End file.
